


where i'll be

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Friends to Enemies to Begrudging Allies to Friends to Lovers, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Unreliable Narrator, bg ferdinand/hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 88,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “It’s about Catherine and Cyril.”“What about them? They’re dead. They died for Rhea when we took Fhirdiad. Bernadetta managed to take out Cyril, and—”And I fought Catherine, but I couldn’t bring myself to deal the final blow, so you did,she doesn’t say—another unnecessary revelation. They both know what happened that night.“Oh, so you’re unaware.” Hubert pauses for emphasis. “Catherine and Cyril are alive.”When the Battle of Fhirdiad is won and the smoke clears, two bodies are missing: Catherine and Cyril, who escaped the battlefield under the cover of night and the celebrations of the Black Eagle Strike Force. They flee to northern Faerghus and plot their next move. Their fate, however, did not go unnoticed, which they discover when Shamir appears on behalf of Edelgard and Hubert to bring them to Enbarr for questioning. Followed by their pasts, the three set off. Will they complete the trip with ease and even repair the relationships damaged by war and strife—or will their journey be a treacherous one ruined by their individual motives?
Relationships: Black Eagles Students & Shamir Nevrand, Catherine & Cyril & Shamir Nevrand, Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 68
Kudos: 172
Collections: Cathmir Week 2020





	1. how it feels to take a fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i've been working on this for the better part of a couple months and i'm delighted to finally start posting, especially in time for cathmir week! before we get into it, blanket warnings -- aside from chapter-specific warnings -- can be considered to be: canon-typical violence/injuries, bg/past character death (most notably rhea and shamir's former partner), past manipulation/exploitation/generally unhealthy dynamics, and very non-graphic animal death in the context of hunting.
> 
> chapter one contains: mentions of death/hunting, mild violence, grief/mourning, major character/animal injuries, near-death experiences, and mentions of past poor living conditions for a child.
> 
> to the best of my ability, we'll be updating **every wednesday** , so stay tuned. title is from talking heads' "this must be the place (naive melody)," chapter title from "icarus" by bastille. enjoy!

Catherine comes to consciousness in a city on fire.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath and shake the spots from her vision. She aches all over, her body limp on the ground, but she is breathing, and her heart pounds a visceral tattoo against her chest.

The battle, she knows with a sharp pain, is over. She can no longer hear the clashing of blades or the swearing of soldiers, only the roar of flames beginning to die down around her. There is no cheering, either—no shouts of victory nor sobs of the defeated. Probably because there are no defeated left with air-filled lungs and beating hearts, and the victorious have taken a step back to consider what to do now, because no one thinks much about what to do right after they’ve won.

With a groan under her breath, Catherine sits up and wrenches the arrow from her shoulder. Blood leaks down, pain bursting from the wound, but one pop from the vulnerary in her pocket numbs it—

—and makes her head clear up, leading her down a dangerous train of thought: If the battle is over, and Lady Rhea hadn’t come to collect her, then…

Catherine swallows. Murky but no less sharp memories of the battle jolt back to her. She’d tried to cut off the approach of the Empire’s forces, who’d gallivanted straight into the throes of it instead of making their way forth in small but skilled numbers as she’d presumed, but she and Cyril had both been taken out. She’d seen meek little Bernadetta, always so shy and sweet, fire away at him like it was nothing. An admirable sentiment from the same side, but chilling from opposing ends. And then there had been Catherine’s opponents.

She shakes the image of remorseless eyes shrouded in flame and a raised bow, instead focusing on the blur of, in the distance, Edelgard and their remaining allies around Lady Rhea. Lady Seiros. The Immaculate One. Whomever she had been in the end. It matters not, to Catherine—to her, she had always been and always would be Lady Rhea.

Deciding to act rather than think, Catherine stands. It hurts. A lot. An arrow to the shoulder and more than one bolt of dark magic, intended to mortally wound, were bound to leave scars.

But Catherine has dealt with worse, and so she can deal with this. One arm falls slack at her side, pins and needles skirting up it—the effect of the spell, no doubt, but Catherine, a sleepy haze still over her mind, grits her teeth and bears it. She takes a halting step, then another. Her boot catches on something, and when she looks down with a muttered curse, it’s to see Thunderbrand lying at her feet.

The Crest Stone still casts a faint glow onto the ground. Catherine snatches her sword up and clutches it to her chest more tenderly than a mother might cradle her infant. No way in _hell_ is she letting those Imperial bastards take her damn sword. The only one on their side with her Crest to begin with is Lysithea, and while her stomach twists for the lies that girl has been fed, she had been right there with them as they’d taken down Lady Rhea (The Immaculate One), and anyway, the sword is about as big as she is.

Sword, huh. Catherine looks around with newfound fury. She wouldn’t put it past Her Imperial Majesty to stage an ambush, especially with Marquis Lapdog and the professor on her side. But she can’t hear any footsteps nor the distinctive sound of the Sword of the Creator unfurling even when she tries to get past the roaring fire, and she can’t see any sign of anyone near her but the dead.

Catherine’s hackles lower, but only just. Right. She has Thunderbrand in her hands, its power surging against her scraped-up palms; a silver sword resting snugly on her hip; and a pair of silver gauntlets tucked away in her armor. More vulneraries, too, than she can count. But she’s alone, outnumbered, and injured—such odds would not daunt Catherine any other time, but now, her chest hollowed out by the way she’d seen Lady Rhea meet her demise through half-lidded eyes, hand outstretched and a cry trapped in her throat as Edelgard and Byleth’s Heroes’ Relics drove into her—

Catherine curls her toes in her boots, bringing herself back to the present by force. The smartest option, someone more fatalistic than Catherine might say, would be to accept her death, if not expedite it. To go out fighting, but ultimately go out.

That, however, has never been how Thunder Catherine deals with things. She refuses to lie down and wait to die. She’ll fight, and she’ll fight, and she’ll not waste any time thinking about the worst outcome because if she has anything to say about it, the worst outcome won’t happen, so it’s not worth even considering. Her teeth gnash at the very thought of not only preparing for but expecting the worst.

So Catherine is going to do what she does best: She is going to fight.

But she has to get out of this city first. Though she cannot quite scrub the fog from her mind, she slides Thunderbrand back into its scabbard, exhaling when its weight leaves her grip and looks around as best as she can. It doesn’t do much—between the smoke and flames, even The Immaculate One’s distant shape is too cloudy to make out.

Cyril, she realizes with a start, must be somewhere around here. If he had survived, she’ll take him with her, because he deserves better than to meet his end by an Imperial guillotine. If he hadn’t—

Well, he deserves better then, too, and while Catherine doesn’t have a shovel, she can figure something out.

She moves, each step a new form of muted agony. Before long, she’s tracked down Cyril’s wyvern, tucked away in the wreckage with wounds matching hers all over its body. It rears up and snarls at her approach.

“Whoa, whoa! It’s all right, buddy.” Catherine has always been somewhat wary of wyverns, even Cyril’s, but she tries to project as calm an image as she can manage, mollifyingly raising her hands. She’s been told that animals react to the emotions that people show. She grins, but it might look more like a grimace.

Either the wyvern is appeased by her half-assed attempt or it sees her desperation, because with lowered ears, it shifts to the side to reveal Cyril’s fallen form.

At first, Catherine thinks she’s too late. The arrows have already been removed, blood leaking onto the charred ground, and the fall ought to have exacerbated his wounds. He’s unmoving, limbs akimbo and eyes closed, cheek to the stone—

But then Catherine, squinting, sees his chest rise and fall in slow and tight but steady breaths. She could almost cry as she sinks to the ground beside him.

“It’s all right, kid,” she tells him, though she knows he can’t hear her. Her hand smooths back his hair. “Everything will be okay.”

Goddess, he looks so _small_. Catherine has known him since he was a kid (well, young teenager), only reaching up to about her waist, and though the years spanning the space since have changed him in more ways than appearance alone, some part of her is still fiercely protective over the boy she’d known. She swallows and looks over his wounds. In this lighting, they don’t seem too bad—Bernadetta had held back after all—but they’ll take some time to heal.

Catherine can’t hear the Imperial army, but it’s only a matter of time before the smoke clears and they uncover them. Her mind churns, thoughts still numbed by the battle and its aftermath, desperate for a solution—

While the Empire has toppled Fhirdiad, it’ll take some time yet for word to reach what few Fódlan settlements exist to the north. Catherine recalls something from her dealings with Dimitri (and though she’d cared for him far less than she had—does—Lady Rhea, his loss will weigh on her too): A safehouse in the Itha Plains, reinforced and stocked with long-stale food. It’s not the best option, but so far as Catherine’s current myopia can tell, it’s the only one.

Catherine looks around once more. The entire city is drowning in smog, and through it all, beyond ruined buildings and shattered infrastructures, Catherine once again makes out Lady Rhea’s—The Immaculate One’s—corpse. Hot tears sting at the corners of Catherine’s eyes as she averts her gaze.

They have to get out of here, and fast. As quickly but carefully as possible, Catherine gathers Cyril up in her arms, wincing at how little effort it takes. His head lolls back against her chest like a ragdoll. With a free hand, Catherine takes his wyvern by the reins. They can only go so fast on foot, but there’s no way it’ll be able to fly for weeks at the least.

And, cloaked by ash, feeling like a prodigal daughter at the beginning of a tale of chivalry, Catherine guides them away.

*

For some time, Catherine allows herself to think of nothing but moving. Stealth has never been her forte, but concepts from half-forgotten conversations come to mind: Keeping out of sight, staying alert to her surroundings, limiting her breathing. Blending in doesn’t become her, and a wyvern at her side and an unconscious young man in her arms worsen matters, but the dark shroud of night evens things out.

Catherine’s focus stays on the task at hand. She cannot consider failure because she cannot fail. Her movements are slow but efficient, and by the time the sun crests over the horizon, she can no longer hear the burning city she’d left behind.

She pauses to bite her tongue so hard the copper tang of blood bursts into her mouth. Cyril’s head bumps against her shoulder, and she picks up the pace.

She’s sure there’ll be someone on their asses soon enough; Edelgard and her black Eagles don’t seem like the type to leave loose ends. But what else is Catherine supposed to do—stop and wait for the Sword of the Creator and Aymr to slice her down like they had Lady Rhea? _Fuck_ no.

So she keeps moving, keeps her thoughts away from anything but the mission at hand. It might not be anything official, but its purpose is as plain as any of the others she’d undertaken as a knight: Stay alive to fight another day.

Catherine’s journey stretches late into the afternoon, with brief pauses every now and then to allow her and the wyvern to rest. Her already-sore limbs ache within an hour, but she doesn’t think of the pain she’s endured and is still enduring—all it will do is slow her down, and she can’t afford that right now. She has a mission, and she is going to fucking see it through.

When her thoughts do stray, it’s only to allow one thought: _Huh, it’s a little late for snow._ Catherine takes a few more steps, walking lighter so as not to disturb the brittle ice beneath her feet, before realization strikes her.

She lifts her head to look around at the plains of northern Faerghus spread out before her. The hues of the early evening paint the white and brown ground gold, but there’s no mistaking it: They’ve made it to the outskirts of the Itha Plains. With a ragged gasp, Catherine collapses to the ground, Cyril still unrelenting grasp.

Now that she allows herself to acknowledge how much she _hurts_ , the dull throbbing from her wounds and the journey progresses into something sharper and more present, not letting itself be ignored any longer. The crisp air leeches Catherine’s breaths from her. She’s dealt with an abundance of pain in her life, attested to by the collection of scars marring her body—but never before has it overtaken her as does this pain, insidious and present in just about every part of her body, sprouting along bones and joints and overworked muscles.

A wing falls around her. Catherine blinks up to find Cyril’s wyvern sitting beside her, offering her shade and warmth.

“You’re not such a bad partner, you know,” she says with a lopsided grin, raising a hand to pat its snout. It gives a snort that she can’t even begin to interpret. “Yeah, you too, buddy.”

She sits there a moment longer, piecing herself together, before bringing herself back up. She would do anything to fall asleep right there, eyelids as heavy as her body, but she can’t rest yet. Out here is no place to let her guard down—wild beasts are known to roam the plains, so any attempt to stop for the night without a tent would expose them to the elements and dangerous wildlife alike, and she has no clue who’s even governing the Itha Plains now. It’ll come under a red-stained thumb before long, she’s sure, but Catherine clenches her jaw to fight off that thought.

She pushes onward, hefting Cyril in her grip and letting the wyvern follow at a slower pace. She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she fled Fhirdiad, but she’s not about to mull it over now.

It doesn’t take long to find the safehouse of which Dimitri had spoken, which means that this is either an inopportune place to hole up or that Catherine has grown more perceptive. But she doesn’t want either her or Cyril to succumb to frostbite, so she rushes forward.

The door is locked but cracks easily with Catherine’s strength. Cyril’s wyvern won’t fit through the door, so Catherine tries to convey to it to wait behind the building, and with a _humans are so stupid_ kind of snort, it trots off in that direction, clawed footsteps loud but not heavy enough to shake the ground.

Catherine steps inside and wastes no time in checking her surroundings. Instead, she sets Cyril down on the first soft surface she finds, a moth-bitten couch. He’s still breathing, thank the Goddess, but each inhale and exhale grows more shallow—she hadn’t paid enough attention to know if he’d woken at all, even for a couple of seconds, on the way here. His wounds don’t seem to be any deeper, but they haven’t healed any, either. To put it in plain terms, he’s in poor shape.

“ _Shit,”_ mutters Catherine.

Why had she thought she could do this? If anything, the journey had probably made Cyril worse off—if she’d been thinking, she would have tried to wake him back in Fhirdiad, regardless of the consequences. If they had been able to make the journey together—

Catherine shakes her head. She has a limited amount of time, every second of it valuable, and she can’t spend it considering what-ifs. She may regret the past, but there’s not a single damn thing she can do to change it; all she can do is move forward with the knowledge she’s earned. Thinking about what she could have done instead won’t save Cyril.

Okay. Cyril is wounded and hasn’t woken yet—how can she help him? She’s no doctor, not to mention her lack of any useful supplies, so surgical means are out of the question. Were he awake, she could get him to drink a vulnerary, but she doesn’t want to risk that while he’s unconscious.

All that’s left, then, is a still-rusty ability Catherine had picked up months ago, disheartened by the amount of clerics they’d lost to Edelgard’s forces. Even Lady Rhea hadn’t known; Catherine had hoped to swoop in and save her one of these days, repaying a years-old favor. A slim chance to begin with, now burnt to ash.

Catherine swallows and rolls up her sleeves. She’d studied white magic as a last resort, and, well, what was this if not the time for one of those?

Magic is not her area of expertise, but she has always taken well to faith, albeit not in the exact higher power to which most white mages draw their power, and it fuels her as her hands hover above Cyril’s wounds. _I’ll look after him, Lady Rhea,_ she thinks. _I promise_.

Her palms glow with white light. Its warm essence soothes even Catherine herself, a calming sensation seeping into her bloodstream. She takes a deep breath. How does this work again? She’d practiced time and time again, listened to the healers among their number speak, read up on what texts they’d salvaged from the Garreg Mach library before Edelgard had captured the monastery—

Catherine’s eyes fall shut, and the image of Lady Rhea turned Lady Seiros, righteous in her fury, pops into her head. Heat jumps to her hands, and light flashes against her eyelids.

One eye cracks open. The pale light emanating from her hands casts onto Cyril, bathing him in an almost saintly glow. One cut trailing across his shoulder stops bleeding—the skin knits itself back together, leaving only a thin gash of a scar along his dark skin. Some other minor scrapes and bruises—more so from the fall from his wyvern than the battle, it seems—disappear. Once the light fades, though, Cyril is still left injured and unconscious.

Catherine already feels drained, but she tries again. And again. And again, until there is no energy nor faith left in her body to power another spell, and she bends forward, shaking, praying to whatever gods Edelgard hadn’t stolen the life from that it had been enough.

Her hands clasp together in her lap. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she wishes that she had memorized more of the Church scriptures, that she had any prayers she could rattle off now.

All she has, though, is the silence and her thoughts. She can’t bring herself to ask Lady Rhea for another favor, but she does tighten her hands’ grips on each other as she tucks them beneath her chin. A wordless prayer passes through her mind. A plea to Lady Rhea, to the Goddess above her, to just about anyone with a benevolent soul and an eye on them right now.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a miracle comes not in the form of divine light or a saint’s visage before her but a cough. Delicate and strained, but—

“Cyril?” Catherine feels herself asking, blood pounding so loudly in her ears that she can’t hear it spoken. She refuses to open her eyes. “Are you all right?”

Another cough, and another, and the popping shifting of bones and joints before her. Catherine forces herself to open her eyes—when she does, she sees Cyril leaning up before her. He’s bloodied and grimacing, but he’s awake and alive and about as all right as she would expect, at least at first glance.

“Catherine?” he asks, hoarse. His eyes are narrowed, expression contorted with pain and confusion. “Is—is that you?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s me, Cyril.” Catherine’s weary eyes water. _I saved him. Oh, Goddess, I saved him._ “Are you feeling okay? Don’t get up too quickly, now,” she adds when he makes to sit up further. “You were hurt pretty badly.”

Cyril’s face scrunches. “Hurt? How—oh, _ugh_.” He clutches his head with a sharp gasp, dirt-rimmed nails curling into his tangled hair. “It feels like someone’s driving an arrow straight through my skull.”

“Take it easy,” advises Catherine, not willing to point out how that was very close from not happening. “I’ve got some vulneraries if you want one. Can’t say it’ll taste that good, but—”

“Fhirdiad,” interrupts Cyril, slow. “Everything was—everything was on fire, and you and I were—and Lady Rhea was—” His eyes pop all the way open, bleary bewilderment replaced with alert concern. Catherine’s heart sinks. Cyril’s mouth works for a moment, expression twisting back and forth. “What happened to Lady Rhea?”

“Listen, kid…”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” Cyril pulls himself up to sit all the way up, still gripping the side of his head but more frantic now. His voice cracks as he struggles to say, “Lady Rhea—Lady Rhea isn’t—they killed her, didn’t they?”

Catherine drops her gaze. “Lady Rhea is dead,” she confirms, and hearing the words in her own voice forces the tears out of her eyes. Her mind has been fighting for a way out of it, a way to convince herself that she hadn’t seen what she’d thought she had, that Lady Rhea would pull herself back up again like she had as Lady Seiros, shedding her skin to reveal an even more powerful form, but—she can’t admit that, not to herself nor to Cyril. They both deserve better than living a lie. Lady Rhea, too, deserved that. “But we’re not.”

It’s a hollow reassurance, a pyrrhic “victory,” and they both know it. Cyril’s fists ball in his lap, knuckles flushed with how tightly he’s digging his nails into his palms. Catherine doesn’t know how to console him; she doesn’t even know how to console herself.

So she settles a hand on his shoulder, taking care not to disturb the tender scar cutting across it, and squeezes as they both sob, raw and mournful, tears ringing out in an empty house meant for a dead king.

*

Cabin fever takes root before long. There’s not much Catherine and Cyril can do in their current mental and physical states, what with the low amount of magic healing they have access to, between Catherine’s fledgling abilities and the remainder of the vulneraries and concoctions they still have. Waiting like this will drive Catherine near-insane, but she doesn’t have any other choice.

Grief only carries them so far—by the end of the first week, Catherine is tired of crying and watching Cyril cry. She shouldn’t have any tears left, and yet they creep up on her every night. There’s nothing else to distract themselves with, though; while changing the subject only draws more attention to the dragon in the room, it’s about all Catherine can do.

She spends some time exploring the house, too, though this only takes around an afternoon given how small it is. Cobwebs cling to about every corner. The windows are boarded up, but day by day, Catherine tugs them off and draws the hole-ridden curtains instead. There are no distinct rooms, only sections Catherine labels off in her head: Bedroom (bed, dresser, wardrobe), kitchen (a couple of counters filled with old food, though there aren’t any appliances), study (a desk, writing paper, and bottle of dried ink—no quill), foyer (the entrance area with a mat and couch). It was clearly not meant for more than one person to stay overnight, but Catherine nabs a blanket and a pillow and makes herself a place on the floor.

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” Cyril tries to argue. “Take the bed. You’re older and higher-ranking than me, so it’s only right.”

“Are you trying to call me old?” Catherine narrows her eyes, then grins, although it falls somewhat flat, when Cyril looks away with a wince. “Relax. There’s a roof over my head, which already makes this better than the conditions I slept in on some of my Church missions.”

Though he doesn’t look happy about it, Cyril acquiesces. His exasperation fades when he settles down on the bed for the first time—humming in thought, he sinks back onto the dusty mattress. Catherine watches with faint amusement as he spreads out his arms and relaxes against the stockpile of blankets.

“This isn’t so bad, actually,” he says, gaze twinkling.

“It doesn’t look as nice as the monastery beds,” notes Catherine, eyeing the flimsy legs. Cyril is leaner than she is, but the bed still looks about ready to snap under his weight any minute.

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know, I never slept in those—I just cleaned ‘em every now and then.”

Catherine frowns. She hadn’t paid much attention to Cyril’s living conditions back at the monastery, given she wasn’t a teacher nor the knight assigned to watch over him, but—“Didn’t you have a room?”

“Nah—I figured everything was full, especially when the students were still there, so Lady Rhea didn’t have anything left. It was always quieter in the library, anyway, so I slept there most of the time.” Cyril shrugs, like he’s admitting to something more casual than not having a proper bed to sleep in through most of his adolescence.

But as he says, Lady Rhea must have had a reason for it, Catherine decides. She occupies herself with examining the house once more over before the thought can occupy more of her energy.

The food stored in the kitchen area is stale but not inedible, though there’s not much of it—whoever stocked it must have imagined anyone in the safehouse would have more rations on hand. But since there is no shortage of beasts in the Itha Plains, that also means there is plenty of prey for those beasts. Catherine takes to hunting in the mornings when there are fewer predators about. Every now and then, she takes Cyril’s wyvern with her. It doesn’t take much wood or flint to start a fire, so Catherine builds a pit out back across the third week and uses it to cook whatever she gathers.

There’s nothing else of note throughout the cabin, as much as Catherine tries to find anything to do besides sit and stare at the wall and suck her thumb. No books (Catherine can’t imagine whoever made this place had decent taste, but they’d make good fodder for the fire), no trinkets, no nothing. It makes enough sense—it’s a safehouse, not a vacation home, but still, one would think people hiding for whatever reason would need something to _do_.

At least Catherine isn’t alone. She and Cyril continue on in numb companionship, grief and defeat eased by each other’s company. Catherine keeps an eye out for Cyril as best she can. He may not be a kid anymore, but he’s still far younger than she is, and more vulnerable between that and his condition.

The thought occurs to Catherine that she may have inadvertently become the mother her parents tried to convince her to become, albeit in a different way. She dismisses it as soon as it crops up. She’s just doing what anyone would do in her position.

Well, maybe not everyone. There are several people Catherine can think of that would have left Cyril there to die.

Catherine tries not to think about the past often—it makes her wounds cramp up late at night when she’s already used all of her magic on Cyril and, even if she hasn’t, isn’t willing to use it on herself—but it nags at her, nipping at her heels to wear her down. Sometimes memories are pleasant; more often than not, these days, they chip away at Catherine’s emotional armor.

So she thinks of other things instead. Like what they’ll do when they’re able to leave.

With Edelgard in power, there aren’t many options. The best decision, Catherine thinks, would be to leave Fódlan altogether, like she’d suggested to Lady Rhea toward the end. Then they could regroup and figure out what to do while not under the threat of arrest and execution.

But the methods by which to do so are far more elusive. They aren’t near any ports. Any long trips would have to be made by the dead of night and likely on wyvernback, a near impossibility unless Cyril went alone—still implausible, as his wyvern’s ability to carry even his weight has been brought into question by its injuries. A plan is a good place to start, but without anything beyond step three, it means jackshit.

So Catherine stops thinking about that, but there’s not much else she can think about.

In short, there’s nothing she can do without frustrating herself even further. She takes to hunting even in the evenings, risking facing wild beasts for the sake of having food and something to do. Despite the area’s proximity to the deserts of Sreng and the current season, the snowfalls in the Itha Plains are brutal, and Catherine doesn’t want her and Cyril to be trapped without supplies. Being stuck is bad enough, but being stuck without anything to eat? Catherine only considers this for a split second before deciding that it is _never_ going to happen.

Water is at least easily accessible—it’s more important than food, Catherine knows, and there’s a stream running right behind the safehouse. About twice a day, she heads out and fills a couple of buckets with water and lugs them back inside to fill up their abandoned canteens and chipped bowls from the cupboard.

She chops whatever wood she can find, too, because for everything it doesn’t have, their temporary base does have an abundance of axes and other tools tucked away in a cupboard that Catherine doesn’t find until the fourth week. (Before then, she splits it with her sword.) This is the kind of work Cyril used to do, but Catherine isn’t going to let him do such menial tasks right now.

A few times a day, Catherine heads out back to feed Cyril’s wyvern—and check that it’s still alive. The wyverns back at the monastery ate like kings; Catherine doesn’t know how much they need per day, but Cyril’s doesn’t seem too unhealthy, so she figures the new diet do for now. Whether the temperature and terrain are detrimental has yet to be seen.

Once he’s marginally back on his feet, Cyril takes the role over for her. Catherine watches through the back window more often than not. He doesn’t seem to notice, as after he gets the meat down his wyvern’s gullet, he rests his head against its scales and stands there for a long time. When he returns, his face is always damp.

Poor kid. He’s trying to act as strong as he can while he recovers, probably so Catherine doesn’t worry or stress herself out more than she already has been, but he’s gone through a lot—too much. Between losing Lady Rhea and his own injuries, though she’s sure one is heavier than the other, Catherine worries about him nonetheless. His physical wounds are recovering fast enough, but his psyche is another story altogether. Catherine can use all of the unhealthy coping mechanisms herself she wants, but Cyril is young, and—

Well. She’s sure he wouldn’t appreciate any direct comments, but she doles out more food for him than usual.

They always eat together, though they don’t often speak over their meals—three times a day, no matter how hard Catherine’s old routine of few large meals with healthy snacks in between beats at her conscience. One night, after having spent thirty-odd minutes embracing his wyvern out in the cold, Cyril clears his throat.

“In Almyra,” he says, low voice shaking, “they honor the dead. They throw feasts and gaudy celebrations and fight in their name. They seek vengeance with all they have.” He sighs, and Catherine sees the vacant yet angry—and beneath that, too, upset and frightened—look in his eyes, hears the way his phrasing sets himself apart. “I’m starting to think they have the right idea.”

Catherine thinks of The Immaculate One’s carcass, felled as though it were nothing, as though it hadn’t hurt her murderers to turn their backs on the one who had tried to support them. She thinks of what she could do in revenge—of mounting the emperor’s head on a pike, of turning her and the professor’s own Heroes’ Relics upon them no matter the toll it would take on her own body (she already suffers the consequences of Thunderbrand), of crying _This is for Lady Rhea_ while driving a dagger straight into the professor’s unbeating heart.

It would be for Lady Rhea, she thinks with a clenched fist. And in that sense, it would be for her and Cyril too. For Flayn and Seteth, forced to hide. For everyone whom Edelgard had hurt in her ruthless path to a petty victory.

“It sounds pretty nice to me too,” says Catherine darkly. “But we’re in no shape to do anything like that yet. Let’s focus on rehabilitation first, and then we’ll piece together something to do for revenge, all right?”

“All right,” agrees Cyril.

The resentment lingers in his eyes, and Catherine wishes she could promise him justice without a hint of doubt. But she knows all too well that there is very little justice left in this world, and what remained had likely been snuffed out alongside the flame of Lady Rhea’s life.

So she goes on eating, resigning herself to the calm before the storm.

*

The peace—if it could be called that, with all of the healing and hunting and mourning—doesn’t last long. Catherine deludes herself into thinking it will for what she estimates to be something like two-and-a-half months (it’s difficult to track time in the middle of nowhere like this, and she won’t weaken her sword by carving tally marks into the wall for every sunrise she’s awake to see), but really, it’s a long time coming when she’s jarred from sleep by a knock at the door.

She bolts upright. Cyril is on the other side of the cabin, having just returned from feeding his wyvern for the morning. His footsteps must still be visible outside.

Cyril’s wide eyes suggest it hadn’t been a dream, but Catherine is about to ask anyway when another knock sounds, clear and real.

Catherine tenses. It could be anyone, and she doesn’t have the energy to figure out the odds that they could be friendly—nothing is coming up Catherine, is the general feeling she gets. The door hasn’t been properly locked since she broke it open when they first arrived, so their unwelcome visitor could break in any moment now. Already, the knob is jiggling.

Catherine looks around. She has two swords on her, and while she’ll not waste Thunderbrand’s power on an ordinary intruder without the materials to repair it, her regular silver sword is in perfect condition. Cyril is far from in fighting shape yet, and Catherine isn’t much better off herself, but they’re on familiar territory. They’ve not been ambushed, so by all means, she and Cyril should have the advantage here.

While she’d paid enough attention during Lady Rhea’s strategy meetings, a safehouse in the wilderness is far from a traditional battlefield. _Fighting is what I do,_ Catherine reminds herself.

She gets to her feet, as quiet as possible, and starts toward the door. Her boots glide along the floor as she ignores the rallying cry of her heartbeat. Her hand raises—

—but before she can fling open the door and draw her sword, it opens from the other side with the distinct _thud_ of a boot, and standing on the other side is—

On the other side of the door, standing with the sky at her back and the snow crushed under her feet, is someone Catherine had wanted to never see again. Her very heart stops at the sight, and she stumbles backward, mouthing but not managing to say, _No_. A pair of cold purple eyes stare right through her.

Behind Catherine, Cyril gasps. “Shamir?”

“Cyril,” is Shamir’s calm response. A minute flicker in her eyes is the only indication of her surprise and—nausea washes over Catherine—relief. “And Catherine. I heard you made it out, but—”

Catherine has no such inclination toward sentimentality now. She unsheathes Thunderbrand. Her arm is still sore, the aftermath of dark magic creeping its way through her veins, but muscle memory and practice via wood-chopping and beast-hunting kicks in, the hilt almost molding itself to fit Catherine’s hand. Thunderstrike Cassandra died long ago, but here Catherine stands, the phoenix birthed of her ashes.

“I’m not here to kill you,” says Shamir. To Catherine’s further frustration, her voice is casual, as nonchalant as if they were discussing something as banal and unimportant as the weather. “I don’t want to fight, Catherine. Put that down.”

Catherine bites out a harsh laugh. “You really think I’m going to believe that? After everything?” She steps to the side, shielding Cyril as best she can—Shamir isn’t always one to fight fair, and while Catherine doesn’t like to think that she’d target her wounded former mentee out of spite, she can’t risk it. “You’re the one who left. You’re the one who sided with them. With her. You don’t just get to show up here and—and—”

“I’m here on behalf of Emperor Edelgard, in fact.”

“How the hell did you even find us?” snaps Catherine, teeth grinding together in anger. She stops—stupid question; between Edelgard’s own spymaster and Shamir, Catherine is pretty sure Edelgard could pinpoint just about everyone. “Hubert wants us dead, does he? We’re not going without a fight.”

She’s speaking for Cyril, she realizes too late, but a haphazard glance over her shoulder shows the rage and hurt burning in his eyes all the same. Catherine and Shamir had been partners, but Shamir had been Cyril’s mentor. They’d respected her in different ways. Every time Cyril nocks an arrow or aims his bow, it must remind him of Shamir’s techniques. The wrath filling Catherine’s body, so sharp her sword hand twitches, is on both of their behalves.

“As I said, I’m not going to kill you.” Shamir hasn’t so much as reached for the lance on her hip nor the bow on her back, but that doesn’t put Catherine at ease. She knows what a quick draw Shamir is. “My mission is to return you to the capital to speak with Edelgard. That’s all.”

“What do you mean, ‘That’s all’?” bursts Cyril, struggling to peer out from behind Catherine as she sidesteps to stand in front of him again. “Lady Rhea told us all about how Edelgard _speaks_ with people. She’s gonna have us drawn and quartered, I bet.”

Shamir’s hand rests on her hip—the one opposite her lance’s sheath, but Catherine keeps an eye on it anyway. “I doubt it. Hubert might try to spring for that, but Edelgard has a good enough head on her shoulders.”

Catherine snorts, derisive. “Yeah, and that head will cost us ours.”

For the first time, Shamir looks straight at her. Her gaze is as uninterested as it had been when they’d met. Catherine’s blood chills at the memory: Shamir’s tone so aloof as she’d said, _Hi, I’m Shamir,_ a lukewarm greeting compared to Catherine’s exuberance at meeting her new partner.

“Edelgard doesn’t want to kill you,” says Shamir. “She’s expressed quite a few concepts of hearing out those who oppose her instead of indiscriminately silencing them.”

“Oh, sure, that’s what her sycophants tell you.” Catherine shakes her head—strands of greasy hair, growing out longer than she’s comfortable with, collide with her face. “I’m sure even Her Emperorness slips every now and then. Not that any of her soldiers would admit to it.”

Shamir’s lip ticks upward. “Do you want to talk about propaganda, Catherine? Then I should tell you what our side said about Rhea.”

“ _Lady_ Rhea,” snarls Catherine on instinct, almost bearing down with Thunderbrand before she catches herself. Her voice lowers. “You never respected her—you might as well pretend to now that she’s gone. And all by your mighty emperor’s hand.”

“I wouldn’t say it was all Edelgard.” Trace amounts of anger peek through Shamir’s stoic mask, and vindication bursts through Catherine. She tamps down on it—too close to the times when they bickered about nothing so monumental. “Look, we’re getting nowhere. My orders are to bring you both to Enbarr. I intend to follow through.”

“Can’t you just leave us be?” Cyril’s tone is pleading. “You’ve already taken Lady Rhea’s life. Can’t—can’t Edelgard just forget about us?”

Shamir turns her gaze from Catherine to settle on him, and the genuine sorrow in it revolts Catherine. “That’s not how this works,” she says, disgustingly gentle.

“What does she want with us, if not our deaths?” says Catherine.

“An honest conversation.” Shamir keeps her eyes on Cyril, to Catherine’s relief and a simultaneous feeling she won’t name. “A promise that you won’t bother avenging your former leader. I’m not sure of her motives beyond that, but that’s the long and short of it.” She clears her throat. “Listen. We can do this the easy way. Hate me all you want if I’m forced to go the hard way—I’m just doing my job.”

Her eyes belie no emotion, but her words are confident. Cyril crowds closer to Catherine. They lock eyes, the question in his obvious: _Can we trust her?_

A long time ago, Catherine might have joked that Shamir was a great many things, but a liar she wasn’t. Now—

Now, she isn’t sure. The niggling doubt sets off regret deep in her bones, a guilty sensation she hasn’t felt since she and Shamir stood together as partners in battle.

However powerful Shamir is, she’s alone. Catherine and Cyril might not be in tip-top shape, but they’re two against one—three counting the wyvern, and three-and-a-half if Catherine also counts her fucking Hero’s Relic. Of the two of them, Catherine has never been the gambler, but she likes her odds.

She lowers her sword. The Crest Stone pulsates against her palm like a miniature heartbeat. Hers quickens to match its pace, but Catherine takes a breath and steels herself. She meets Shamir’s eyes but refuses to give in aloud.

Shamir understands. Shamir always does. “Shall we set off, then,” she says, tone neutral but heavy, “partner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noting right here that i possess a very strong willful ignorance of canon geography (what little concrete information exists to begin with), so if any solid canon lore contradicts with what i've presented here in that regard, please look the other way. my city now.
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading! _next week_ : a mission and a memory. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	2. farther than ever before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! warnings for chapter two: implied violence/death, mentions of hunting, and alcohol use in the final scene. also, shamir-typical morality, which could have honestly just been a tag on the whole fic.
> 
> chapter title from "transatlanticism" by death cab for cutie. enjoy!

Enbarr is, Shamir has decided, an interesting place.

Perched on one of the many balconies, she considers the city laid out below her. Though she’d spent time in it before, often on missions for the Church, she’d never had the opportunity to look around as she had since she had arrived here at the war’s end. It’s far removed from the Dagdan cities she was once used to and many of the other cities in Fódlan she’s familiar with. In people, in architecture, in politics, in history—hell, even in the time the sun rises and falls each day. Shamir doubts she’ll ever get used to it.

Not that she’d want to. Or at least, she doesn’t think she wants to. She’d been planning on leaving Fódlan once both wars ended, considering her debts paid and her contract with Edelgard null, but now, she’s not sure what her plans are.

She’s spent long enough around people who talk so often about their “paths” and fate and that sort of thing that she finds herself almost longing to find her own, trite as the prospect seems. A long time ago, she had thought she’d known what road she was meant to walk, but—

But now, Shamir is only spending time thinking. She sighs and rests her arms on the railing before her. There isn’t any rush to get back to her antebellum life, but there’s a restless feeling at the back of her mind, and the injuries she’d sustained and dealt in the battles of Fhirdiad and Shambhala hadn’t helped matters.

Introspection has never suited her well. It’s natural during meditation, sure, to get all of her thoughts out before they sift through, but Shamir far prefers actions and experiences to words or thoughts. Yet right now, all she can do is think. One thought that almost plagues her is from a battle months behind her; a pair of bright eyes turned dark and hateful by the harsh flames and the chasm between them, a sword raised to cleave her arrows in twain, the frantic beating of a wyvern’s wings in the distance—

A quiet rustling sound behind Shamir alerts her to the presence of another. Still as the city is, Shamir reaches for her bow, but her hand stops mid-motion when the sound registers in her mind: The swish of Hubert’s gaudy cloak. Her fist falls back to her side as she looks at him.

There is no need for a formal greeting, not between people like them. Hubert grants her only a brusque nod. He doesn’t step up beside her, eyes flickering over the buildings and streets below them before he tilts his head back and fixes his attention on the horizon line instead. Shamir doesn’t acknowledge the faint green tint in his face.

“What do you need?” she says—Hubert wouldn’t join her like this if he didn’t require something from her.

“Quick to the punch as always, aren’t you?” Hubert flashes her a thin smile. “I had something to ask of you—I have a quest for you, as it were. A request straight from Her Majesty.”

That gives Shamir pause. Edelgard isn’t _her_ emperor, not really—she’s not paying Shamir, not anymore, and as little as she herself had been involved in the Dagda and Brigid War, she is still the head of the nation that had destroyed Shamir’s home and taken Petra’s under their thumb. But after fighting two wars alongside her, one public and the other behind-the-scenes but both brutal, Shamir does respect her. (Respect. Not fear. Regardless of Edelgard’s feelings on the matter, Shamir is sure her lack of fear and complete fealty would displease Hubert, but it’s nothing personal. She doesn’t fear many things, nor is she loyal to many.)

Hubert still hasn’t elaborated, so Shamir takes the hint. He does always like dragging things out of people, drawing out the suspense to make their blood curdle, though this doesn’t work on Shamir. She is stoic as she prompts, “What is it?”

“It’s about Catherine and Cyril.”

His tone is neutral and lacking in suggestion. This is the way their relationship (friendship, probably, but Shamir isn’t used to the term) operates: Hubert won’t mention the obvious, and neither will she. There are certain things that don’t need to be spoken of nor implied, things they both know. It’s a matter of safety and privacy alike.

But unlike Hubert, Shamir doesn’t have any rebuilding territories to accompany anyone to or any letters to send when she’s too busy. “What about them? They’re dead,” she says, tone as even as ever. “They died for Rhea when we took Fhirdiad. Bernadetta managed to take out Cyril, and—”

 _And I fought Catherine, but I couldn’t bring myself to deal the final blow, so you did,_ she doesn’t say—another unnecessary revelation. They both know what happened that night. For one side, a victory; for the other, a defeat; and for the world, something in between, yet to be seen. Nothing is all black or all white in life, and war is far from an exception.

“Oh, so you’re unaware.” Hubert pauses for emphasis. Though Shamir thrives in silence, this is almost too grating for her to stand. “Catherine and Cyril are alive.”

Shamir freezes. “What?”

Hubert’s smile widens. “In the chaos after the siege of Fhirdiad,” he goes on casually, like she hadn’t spoken, “my spies happened to notice a pair of wounded Church associates flee the city alongside an injured wyvern. With the descriptions I was provided, I have reason to believe that those two were, in fact, the presumed-dead Catherine and Cyril as well as the latter’s chosen mount.”

“Everything was on fire and everyone still alive was celebrating, and your spies managed to pick something like that up?”

“They’re _very_ well-trained.” Of that, Shamir has no doubt, but still, she narrows her eyes. Hubert casts of her dubious glare to say, “Really, are you going to question my intel instead of hearing me out?”

“If they noticed back then, are you only telling me this now?”

“We had far more pressing matters than two _severely_ wounded ex-Church affiliates stealing away.” Hubert shakes his head, almost disappointed. “But now it has become somewhat more pressing.”

“You have a point,” says Shamir, though she doesn’t like where this is heading. “What do you want me to do?”

Hubert folds his arms behind his back, like he does when delivering reports to Edelgard or Byleth (though the latter won’t hear another, given their disappearance the day after the war with Those Who Slither in the Dark ended). His posture straightens with the movement. While he normally doesn’t carry much presence on purpose, now Shamir can feel all of it. He’d make a good mercenary—for naught, though, since he’d never leave behind his role at the emperor’s side. Or the prime minister’s, for that matter. Such a strong proclivity for attachments does not a good mercenary make.

“Catherine and Cyril,” says Hubert, tone steady, “were two of Rhea’s closest associates. Aside from Flayn and Seteth, who have disappeared and whom we will, according to the professor, never see again—” that does sting a bit; Shamir had never connected nor interacted much with Seteth, but she’d at least been fond of Flayn “—Catherine and Cyril likely knew the most about Rhea and her plans. Due to this and their close relationships with her—” Hubert gives Shamir a side glance, and she unclenches her jaw “—we can’t be too careless. If they are to rise up in resistance, we should at least be prepared. They’ve had around two-and-a-half months to plot their revenge, but they won’t have any longer if we have anything to say about it.

“While I had some… suggestions as to our course of action, Her Majesty wishes to speak to them.” His lip curls, but of course he doesn’t question Edelgard’s orders. “Therefore, I’d like to ask you to retrieve them from their base in northeastern Faerghus—the Itha Plains, I am told—and return them to Enbarr. In a timely manner would be preferred, naturally, but I understand that it is quite an undertaking.”

Shamir lets that sink in for a long moment. Her task, as she sees it, is to bring Catherine and Cyril, who are alive (albeit, it seems, not well) for reasons beyond her comprehension, from the Itha Plains to Enbarr. A simple enough retrieval job, from a detached standpoint.

Her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, tapping out a rhythm of all of the unnecessary words she’s tempted to say. Fists form and uncurl at her sides. Easy as it should seem, a flood of emotions wash over Shamir.

But in the end, this is a job, and jobs have no place for emotions, so finally she asks, “Just me?”

Hubert tilts his head and hums. “A battalion will be available to relieve you if you so wish, but yes, you will be the major party carrying out the task.”

Shamir doesn’t address that; if she’s to do this, it won’t be a combat mission, so she needs no battalion. More mouths to feed, more lives to keep track of. An unnecessary complication. “This isn’t an order,” is all she says, voice careful.

“No, it isn’t,” says Hubert, although it hadn’t been a question. “It’s a mission, for all intents and purposes, though hardly in any official capacity. You needn’t accept it. If you do, you will be paid in full afterward, but I will be unavailable to assist you with the planning and such, so I shall leave that up to you.”

Before this, Shamir had worked alone, so that’s nothing new to her. By all means, she should take Hubert up on his so-called quest. Politically speaking, it’s important, and she might be one of the few people with enough skills in stealth and subterfuge to carry it out with most being none the wiser. She might also be one of the only people whom a grieving Cyril wouldn’t shoot on sight. But—

But Shamir can’t keep herself from thinking of her life before the war. Fraught moments that would later become ironic. Now-broken promises made to her pupil and partner. And then her life during the war—facing Catherine in Brigid, obscured amongst the trees, and again in Fhirdiad, where she’d though they’d both perished alongside their leader, stubborn pride and loyalty that Shamir could never understand leading to their fall. Their obstinance, really, is the only reason Shamir isn’t more surprised that they’d survived. Catherine and Cyril had always been fighters, and their anger at Fhirdiad had been as thick as the smog.

Maybe Cyril _would_ shoot her on sight, after all. His hands had been shaking when he’d raised his bow, and Shamir had ducked out of the way when he’d fired, but his aim had been off anyway, but—

 _But, but, but_. These thoughts set Shamir off-kilter. She isn’t one for doubt and is even less one for this strong of an emotional reaction. She’d always known, somewhere, that she and Catherine would end with a blade and arrow at each other’s throats, on opposite sides of a battlefield, and she had been prepared to meet the reality of sealing Catherine’s fate herself, but—

“Well?” asks Hubert, jarring Shamir from her consideration. He regards her with something more like pity than amusement. “This is rather dire, otherwise I wouldn’t beg an answer of you so soon, but—”

There’s only one choice, in the end, and Shamir exhales. “I’ll do it.”

*

Two-and-a-half weeks later, Shamir is already beginning to regret her decision.

It had only taken around twenty minutes to get away from the (alleged) safehouse, given how few supplies Catherine and Cyril had on hand, and it had only taken that _long_ because of Catherine, Cyril, and his wyvern’s injuries. They had been less out of it than Shamir had expected, but three months had done them well.

Few words, too, had been exchanged. Shamir had handed off cloaks to help them disguise themselves before they’d left. But she hadn’t had the foresight to bring more than one horse—the mare she’d used during the war, one bred and trained by Ferdinand—along, and since Cyril’s wyvern isn’t in any condition to do more than walk alongside them, that means they’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot. In other words, they’re traveling the safest but slowest manner.

The tension in the air doesn’t ease matters. Five years and then some haven’t cooled the bad blood, it seems, but Shamir hadn’t expected anything different. Catherine has always been passionate and hotheaded, and Cyril’s loyalty to Rhea—never criticized by Rhea herself—bordered (borders, from the looks of it) on dependence. He hadn’t shot on sight, as Shamir had braced herself for, but Catherine may as well have.

The memory of Thunderbrand pointed at her makes Shamir grimace. She doesn’t bother combating it, as she’s a firm distance away from Catherine and Cyril with her hand on her horse’s reins. Minute as her expressions are, Catherine might still be able to read them. She’d been good at pinning down Shamir’s mood by the time they’d parted ways.

But never good enough. Shamir doubts she’d expected her so-called betrayal; and maybe Shamir hadn’t been either, because they had both admitted they’d figured they would end up fighting each other to the death someday anyway, but—

But these are thoughts Shamir shouldn’t be having now. She distracts herself by tugging her horse forward. One animal’s tracks had been easy to cover—two, with one being a wyvern, more so, so they’ll have to be careful about which paths they travel. Roads less traveled, places where prints won’t show. Shamir is _not_ going to suggest Cyril put his beloved mount out of its misery or set it free in its current state, but it’s still a factor she hadn’t accounted for.

She can work around it. As long as they’re slow and careful and follow her planned detours (with some in-the-moment tweaking), far away from paths used even by ordinary travelers, they can do this.

Shamir tosses a glance over her shoulder. Catherine and Cyril aren’t talking, only walking at a pace to keep up with Shamir. Catherine’s strides are slower than usual, perhaps so she can stay even with Cyril, who’s lagging behind.

 _Than usual_. Shamir doesn’t know any of that now, really. Her first thought in Fhirdiad had been how little Catherine had changed and how much Cyril had, but what is there under the surface? Catherine and Cyril are both unpredictable so far. Observation and readjustment are crucial to success, but whether it’s Shamir’s success or theirs or some amalgam thereof she’s aiming toward, she doesn’t—can’t—know yet.

Shamir faces ahead again. She doesn’t like feeling unprepared and out of her element. Several rules are already squared off in her mind, spliced together and adapted from those she’s kept running in her head over various other missions; this one should be no different, so Shamir will hold to tradition as best she can. They’re more loose guidelines than hard-and-fast rules. Her current rules go something like:

One: No towns. Crowds have never suited Shamir well, and they’d be particularly unwelcome now. Overall safety—from bandit attacks, from someone recognizing Catherine and Cyril, from someone recognizing _Shamir_ , from any sort of natural or human-inspired disaster—is much preferred over a warm bed to sleep in for a single night.

Two: Stick to the plan. Certain factors Shamir can’t account for, but once they leave the Itha Plains, the weather should be normal, and the human condition is controllable enough. Should she follow the same route with some minor alterations, it should be fine.

Three: Keep going. A steady traveling pace is the best way to get them back in a reasonable amount of time.

Four: Don’t take unnecessary risks, whether with the route, the targets (as she’s dubbed Catherine and Cyril, since that’s what they are), or the plan in general. Playing it safe might not be interesting, but it’s the only way Shamir has stayed alive as long as she has.

Five: Don’t directly engage the targets any more than necessary.

The final one shouldn’t be any trouble for Shamir. This is a mission like any other, she tells herself, and Catherine and Cyril are her targets. She’s their escort, handler, whatever she wants to call it, so she should have little cause to interact with them unless it’s a matter of life-or-death (or something less dramatic but no less mandatory). Besides, words mean little in the face of actions. If Shamir doesn't have anything to say, she won’t say it, and Shamir doesn’t often have much to say.

But some painful sense of duty weighs Shamir down. As much as she’d like to ignore it, she has history with these targets—these people—that can’t be buried forever, let alone for a close-quarters journey thousands of miles and dozens of days long.

Still, the first day of said journey isn’t the right time to unearth these thoughts. Yet they pursue Shamir as lethally and actively as any assassin, and therefore, she has no choice but to make her most valiant attempt to block them out altogether. They’re unnecessary and unwanted. They had plagued her in the first few days after the battle of Fhirdiad, but she’d thought she’d dismissed them for the time being.

She shakes herself and narrows her focus. Meditating while walking isn’t something Shamir likes much, because letting her mind go blank isn’t the best in wooded areas and the like, but the alternative is being stalled by her impertinent thoughts.

So Shamir takes a deep breath and focuses only on the ground beneath her feet as they move.

*

They have to set up camp earlier than Shamir would have liked. Traveling with two additional people and an incapacitated wyvern means the way back will take longer than the way there—it also means that, for Shamir’s mission to succeed, every possible precaution must be taken. The sun is barely setting, but an empty clearing in the middle of a thin forest may be the safest place they’ll find for days.

Shamir doesn’t seem to be the only one with a problem. After she tells them they’re stopping, Catherine scoffs and asks, “Really, already? It’s not even dark out yet. I think we could risk another couple of miles.”

“I could. Could you?” Shamir looks not at Catherine but Cyril, who—though he seems in much better shape than Shamir would have expected from witnessing his injuries at Fhirdiad—has begun dragging his leg. He looks away with a sharp grimace.

That shuts Catherine up. Her fingers twitch, but Shamir pays no attention as she turns to set up what she can.

She doesn’t have the wood for a fire, though she does put down some flint, then guides her horse to wait on the edge of the clearing. The area is far from ideal—the trees are spaced far enough apart that they’d be visible to anyone passing by, and the next offshoot of the river isn’t for a few miles—but it’ll do for a night. Twelve-odd hours, really, since Shamir intends on setting off before it’s even light out. If necessary, she can set Catherine or Cyril up on her horse to prevent them any further injury.

There are more important things to worry about now, though. For example: “Do you have any rations on you?” asks Shamir, turning back toward Catherine.

Catherine’s response is a withering look. “Do I look like someone who’s been living off of more than moldy bread and poorly-skinned deer for the past few weeks?”

Shamir looks over her as briefly as possible, noting the weaker muscles and the unhealthy tint to her skin. She presses her lips together instead of saying an unnecessary _No_.

“I’ll go hunt for something,” says Cyril, getting to his feet.

Catherine jolts upright. “Cyril—”

“If I’m healed up enough to walk, I’m healed up enough to hold a bow and shoot arrows.” Cyril tugs at the hood of his cloak. “I’ve gotten way too sloppy. Besides, I’ve gotta pay you back somehow, don’t I?”

Before either of them can protest further, Cyril grabs his bow and quiver off the side of his wyvern and takes off.

Catherine turns away with a muttered swear. Instead of worrying—Cyril won’t be able to go far—Shamir takes the opportunity to inform Hubert of their progression. She doesn’t have much parchment or ink stored away on her person, but it’s more than enough to suit her purposes.

Just as she’s dipped her quill in ink, Catherine starts humming. Somewhere, Shamir recognizes it as a Church hymn—nothing she knows the lyrics to, but a familiar enough tune, something Byleth would have roped them into singing for choir practice at the monastery. Were it anyone else humming, it might have been annoying but not actively detrimental.

The problem here, however, is that Catherine wouldn’t be able to carry a tune to save her life. She doesn’t even seem to notice herself doing it, or at least she’s pretending not to so she can irritate Shamir further.

It works. Shamir attempts to continue going about her business before realizing that she can’t work like this. She gathers up her writing materials and leaves without a word. She’s not worried about Catherine escaping or anything to that extent; some twisted sense of loyalty will likely prevent her from doing anything, and if she does, Shamir will be able to track her down without a problem.

Attachment has always been a point of contention between Catherine and Shamir, so juvenile pettiness aside, Shamir can’t bring herself to resent Catherine’s attitude. As she’d said, Shamir _had_ been the one to leave. She doesn’t know how to explain to Catherine that it had been for a just cause, that it hadn’t been personal—that she can’t figure out how Catherine would still be so loyal to someone so corrupt in the end. She shouldn’t have to be the one to explain.

Shamir pinches the bridge of her nose. She is and always will be a mercenary. A retrieval mission, no killing or maiming involved unless absolutely necessary, is about the most mundane thing she can do. And yet—

And yet here she is, pacing not fifty feet away from Catherine. Shamir brings her focus back to the parchment and pen in her hand.

She settles down on a nearby fallen log and bends so she can use it as a writing surface. Her message to Hubert is short, simple, and intricately coded. Hubert is insistent upon his ciphers—Shamir takes to codes like a swan to water, and his are creative enough for her not to wrinkle her nose at the pretentiousness of inventing one’s own ciphers. There’s no need for flowery language in matters of such grave importance.

It doesn’t take long for Shamir to lift her pen from the parchment and roll it up into a scroll to be delivered to whatever messenger raven (Hubert doesn’t settle for smaller or more easily trained birds) comes her way. Just as she’s shifting back up, she hears something in the distance: The _thud_ of an arrow landing.

Alarm shoots through Shamir. It’s something of a relief to see how fast she can go on the offensive still. She stuffs the message in her pocket and gets to her feet, quick and quiet. She hasn’t heard Catherine draw her sword or shout in either victory or pain, so it can’t be anything around their camp—it had sounded further into the trees.

Shamir takes a step, then another. Her eyes flicker up and down before each step; there don’t seem to be any stray branches or leaves in her path, but a snapped twig giving away her position would be disastrous at best, so she can’t be too careful.

Another arrow flies through the air. This time, Shamir pinpoints its direction. She makes her way around the looming trees to find—

Cyril, having already felled one boar, aiming straight ahead. He’s crouching, arm drawn back, bowstring curved in a way that Shamir identifies at once as one of her own techniques. His torso is bent forward, the only sound his ragged breathing. Shamir spots another arrow planted in the base of the tree straight ahead.

This time, when Shamir steps forward, she trods on a loose leaf. Cyril’s head jerks back toward her.

They stare at each other for a moment, Cyril’s wide eyes fearful and Shamir waiting for him to speak before she’s forced to.

“I got a deer too,” he says finally, jerking his head toward the trees behind him. “It took a couple more arrows, and I almost missed, but it’s more meat. And I gathered up some herbs and mushrooms too.”

Shamir nods. “Good job,” she says before realizing it’s too similar to the lukewarm encouragements she used to hand out while he was training under her. She turns on her heel and starts back toward their makeshift camp.

“This doesn’t change anything,” calls Cyril, and Shamir stops to glance over her shoulder. Cyril is staring down, chewing his lower lip, and though his bow is down, his hands twitch on it in a way that makes Shamir think he’s considering raising it. Instead of his bow, though, he lifts his gaze. “You still—you still left. And you still killed Lady Rhea.”

Shamir wants to raise a technicality against the royal _you_ , but she doesn’t think that would be the most helpful. So she nods.

Cyril’s jaw twitches. “You’re not gonna explain why?”

“Does it matter?” says Shamir, cool. “Like you said, I left and contributed to Rhea’s death. Hate me for that if you must.” Her tone grows rawer than she’d like, a sliver of weary emotion slipping through the cracks before she can stop it. “I doubt a justification will change things.”

For a moment, Cyril stares at her. Shamir watches about every feeling flicker through his dark eyes: Anger that turns into nostril-flaring fury, sorrow deep enough to stir something distant in Shamir’s own heart, flashes of terror, even something like respect.

Then he drags himself to his feet. “I’m gonna go get the deer.”

While he rushes off to do so, Shamir picks up the fallen boar and slings it over her shoulder. When he returns, Cyril’s mouth twists at the sight of Shamir assisting him without so much as a word, but he’s having trouble under the weight of the deer on his own shoulder. He accepts her help with a simple yet begrudging nod.

By the time they arrive back at camp, Catherine has set up a fire. Shamir raises an eyebrow at the amount of wood stacked before her—repurposed from, she suspects, a log Catherine is now sitting on.

“It was getting cold,” says Catherine with a shrug, “and I have some axes from the Itha Plains.” She pulls a small steel axe from her belt.

With nothing more than a hum of acknowledgment, Shamir steps aside for Cyril to reenter the camp and start preparing the meat he’d caught. She rearranges her arrows while they wait. If she’s to be hunting over the next few weeks, she’ll need to prioritize her ammo.

They eat in silence. With how little time and supplies they have, the meat is somewhat underdone, but Shamir can’t complain as long as it’s edible. Cyril seems to have trouble chewing it, but he doesn’t say anything to Catherine or Shamir, only reaching for his canteen and taking a break to sip the water inside every few minutes.

Catherine’s appetite is as voracious as ever; she only eats less than Cyril’s wyvern. Shamir doesn’t point it out, since she doesn’t speak with her mouth open (or at all). But for all of Shamir’s feelings toward silence, hearing—or rather, _not_ hearing—Catherine refrain from speaking is odd. Shamir prefers it to the cheap shots that would have no doubt been thrown her way had she broken her guidelines and engaged the targets, but Catherine’s voice—saying everything and nothing all at once—had been such a constant years ago that the current dynamic is strange.

Once they’re done, Catherine and Cyril set out a pair of Shamir-provided bedrolls. Cyril is starting to lie down when he notices Shamir still stoking the fire and squints in silent confusion.

“I’m going to keep watch.” Shamir sleeps light anyway, and she can tell from the twitch of Catherine’s eyebrow that she remembers this, but Shamir isn’t tired in the slightest—and she’s somewhat worried about what her unconscious mind could come up with. Not that she’ll say any of this. “Night is when you should least let down your guard.”

“Right.” Shamir doesn’t look back, but she can tell Catherine is rolling her eyes from her tone. “Don’t kill us in our sleep.”

Shamir sighs, not having the energy to point out how counterproductive that would be, and stares firmly ahead at the trees.

*

When Shamir does curl up to sleep, bedroll halfway across the camp from Catherine and Cyril’s, a memory plays out against her eyelids.

It’s of her and Catherine, of course. Shamir expects it to take the same turn as most of her dreams involving Catherine have been for months (years), but instead, she watches the scene play out as she recalls it, a faceless third party rather than through her younger self’s eyes.

She and Catherine had been sitting side-by-side at a bar in southern Faerghus, loose with the euphoria of a finished job. They’d known each other for a couple of years—short enough to still have secrets, but long enough that they were comfortable around each other. Judging from their hair and clothing, it wouldn’t have been long before Byleth would arrive at the monastery and offer a hand that one would take and the other would cut off if given the chance.

But they hadn’t known how their lives would change in the too-near future. So Catherine had smiled and laughed like it was any other night. Shamir hadn’t, but it was rare that Shamir did, and the conversation wasn’t all that titillating; Catherine had gotten a few drinks in her and thought everything was hysterical.

“Are you going to be able to get back on your horse?” Shamir had asked, arms crossed.

Catherine had done that tipsy snort of hers, one she always tried to goad Shamir into saying was cute. Shamir had never agreed. “Please, we’re going to stay the night here.”

“This is a tavern, not an inn.”

“Yeah, I have a brain. Obviously I meant here as in the village, Shamir, not literally _right here_.” Catherine had rolled her eyes. She’d toyed with her empty glass, tipping it off of the counter and then back down again with a series of gentle _click_ s. “I made reservations at that inn down the street earlier. Figured it would be too late to make a safe trip back to the monastery.”

“That’s—surprisingly wise of you.”

“Jeez, blunt as ever. _Thank you, Catherine, my beloved partner, for not making me carry you hundreds of miles drunk off our asses,_ ” Catherine had said in a pitched voice that had sounded nothing like Shamir.

“I’m not drunk,” Shamir had said. “And I’ll only thank you if you managed to get at least two separate beds a respectable distance apart in the same room this time.”

“What, you don’t like sharing with me?”

Shamir hadn’t let herself hesitate. “You snore.”

Catherine’s head had slumped forward onto the table, but with the alcohol in her system, it had been impossible to tell whether she was genuinely upset, neutral, or trying to suppress laughter. (Shamir’s bet had been on the latter.) “C’mon, Shamir. You can just say you don’t want to share a bed with me—I won’t be hurt. Outright libel is—”

“If it weren’t true, it would be slander. Libel is written. Though it’s not slander either, because it’s true.” It hadn’t been. Or at the least, Shamir had never let herself be awake or around long enough to find out if it were true.

Catherine had pulled a face at her, half-buried in her arms. Shamir had taken a drink. The bartender had surreptitiously slid a glass of water across the counter, escaping Catherine’s notice, and Shamir had nodded in gratitude as she’d passed it over to Catherine, who’d refused to touch it.

“You did get us separate beds, though, right?” Shamir had prompted, realizing Catherine had never answered the question.

“Relax, of course I did. Separate rooms, too.”

Shamir had nodded, unwilling to acknowledge the ratio of relief to disappointment, and waited. Usually, this was the part where Catherine said something wishy-washy about Rhea in an attempt to diffuse the odd tension that made things worse. She’d made no such effort then. Too wasted to even wax poetic about the one she held on such a reinforced pedestal that it would leave scars when it came crumbling down on her someday, Shamir had surmised.

Or respecting Shamir’s policy of only saying what wasn’t already implied for once, as in lieu of a wistful comment, Catherine had said out of nowhere, “I’m not the only one.” She’d lifted her head to meet Shamir’s eyes with unexpected intensity. “Face it—your heart is still in Dagda, isn’t it?”

Shamir hadn’t answered. She hadn’t doubted that Catherine had taken it as an affirmation, because Catherine had always jumped to conclusions and run with them before Shamir could so much as open her mouth. That hadn’t been her intention. Some things didn’t need to be answered, and that didn’t equal acquiescence—some things were just private.

What Shamir had wanted to say had been: _I don’t know if I have a heart anymore. If I do, it doesn’t belong to a country._

What she’d really thought had been: _It is not with Dagda, but I do have a heart, even if I don’t_ want _to have one anymore. Having a heart means opening yourself up to attacks. Having a heart means getting hurt. Having a heart may be beneficial for a knight like you, but it’s awful for a mercenary. Having a heart gets you and other people in trouble. You think I act like this for no good reason?_

What she’d though, beneath it all, had been: _If I have a heart, it is with a person, not a place. And that person would have to be—_

And the answer should have been someone she’d buried not ten years ago. It should have been, by all means, but Shamir had known, deep down, that the answer had changed as of late.

She hadn’t said any of that, though. Just this once, Shamir had let Catherine keep her misconception. She wouldn’t have understood the truth, anyway.

Shamir’s memory fades, leaving the rest of their conversation that night a puzzle she already knows the solution to, and she snaps awake to find the sky still dark and Catherine and Cyril both still asleep.

She doesn’t get back to sleep for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that the timeline of the defeat of twsitd is slightly unrealistic, but hey, if the golden deer could do it in basically a month, then the black eagles aided by the golden deer could too. also, for plot reasons, it wouldn't have really made sense for that to still be going on.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! _next week_ : a nightmare and a question. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	3. all things end and all things change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter three: brief mentions of violence, death, and hunting.
> 
> chapter title from "can't go back" by the crane wives (this is my One plug for the crane wives -- they're really good and their songs are all over this fic's playlist. go check their music out!). enjoy!

Before long, even while moving at the approximate pace of an elderly snail, Fhirdiad approaches, the paths meeting at its gates walked by Shamir too many times. They skirt around its edges, of course. It’s been months since the fall of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, but the damage to Fhirdiad had been to the extent that Shamir, though she hadn’t stopped by on her way north, is sure there’s still reconstruction being undergone.

When the scenery grows familiar, Catherine and Cyril both stiffen. As far as Shamir knows, they hadn’t spent much time around Fhirdiad before its siege, but it must be enough that they know where they’re headed. Shamir keeps them out of view of any of the buildings. One misstep could be it.

She smells smoke in the air, though she’s sure it’s her last memories of Fhirdiad influencing things. It had once been a great city, in infrastructure if nothing else, and it may return to greatness someday. But now it’s as scarred as any of them. Its buildings are in ruin, plenty of its residents have died or fled, and forever it will be marred by the shadow of war hanging over it, its role in history as the city where the Empire’s war against the Church of Seiros ended, though accounts will no doubt vary as to who was more just in the conflict.

It may have been safer (whether emotionally or physically) for their path to hug the eastern border of Faerghus, but that would have put them too deep into Fraldarius territory. The new duke is about as friendly as he’s ever been, and there might still be loud Kingdom sympathizers that far east. Shamir doesn’t want to deal with either of them.

So Shamir guides them past Fhirdiad with little to no issue minus the exacerbated tension in the air, mitigated by her keeping her gaze fixed on the horizon. Once they’ve gone a safe distance from the city, Catherine exhales through her teeth. Shamir ignores it and pushes onward.

“Are we going to stop anytime soon?” asks Catherine around midday, voice echoing slightly around the trees.

Shamir doesn’t look back. “If we find a safe place, sure. At the next clearing, we’ll break for a half-hour and keep going until we find somewhere more suitable to make camp for the night.”

Catherine groans and gripes under her breath, too low for Shamir to discern anything, but if she or Cyril were having substantial difficulties, she would pull her sword on Shamir, so Shamir ignores this too. Although she does manage to slow their pace with the mental excuse of it being in the most likely areas to be populated.

As promised, they stop in the next clearing, which is home to a large pond. After inspecting the water, Shamir makes the executive decision to use it to wash up as best they can. Smell isn’t the most important sense, but strong body odor wouldn’t go unignored by beasts _or_ humans if allowed to build up over time.

“It’s nothing like the sauna at Garreg Mach or anything like that,” says Shamir, “but it’s the best we have to clean water. Fill up your canteens now too.”

Catherine and Cyril oblige easily enough. Catherine’s hair stays damp for ages afterward, darkened strands sticking to her forehead and neck. Since she goes first and Shamir goes last by unspoken agreement, on Cyril’s turn, she spends her and Shamir’s watch on the edge of the clearing shaking water out of her boots and complaining of the cold. (Given the season, neither she nor the water can be _that_ cold, but Catherine has always had a flair for the dramatic.)

Shamir keeps her arms folded and face blank even as she considers the effect of their proximity to Fhirdiad. Unease still lingers in Catherine’s features and voice despite the deep breaths and blatant antagonism. But there’s no way for Shamir to abate them without being buffered, so she’ll have to wait for Cyril to say something when he emerges; given how long he’s taken as opposed to his usual efficiency, he can’t be feeling well either. And Shamir can’t stand here listening to Catherine mutter complaints all day—it evokes a certain kind of nostalgia she has no need for.

So she peels her back from the tree she’s leaning against. “I’ll scout ahead for somewhere else to stop tonight. Whistle when Cyril is done.”

“Wait,” starts Catherine, but Shamir is already walking away. Also nostalgic, but not enough so to slap Shamir in the face like the droplets of water shaken from Catherine’s hair.

She wipes some off of her jaw, having refused to so much as acknowledge them around Catherine, as she walks off. Then she takes a breath, dismisses it from her mind, and carries on. She’s on a mission. She doesn’t have time for this, so why—

Why is she still trying to talk herself out of it and thereby focusing on it even _more_ , wonders Shamir dryly. She pauses, checks her surroundings, and starts up again.

Not too far ahead of their current stopping point, she manages to find an emptier clearing, though she doesn’t get too much of a chance to examine things before a sharp whistle—subtle enough to pass for a beat of birdsong—echoes through the trees. Shamir blinks as she straightens.

She hadn’t expected Catherine to _actually_ whistle, let alone in a surreptitious manner. It hadn’t been a joke, but she’d figured Catherine would take it as one, or at least disregard it as metaphorical. Though Shamir should stop expecting things out of her by now. It’s been five years since she was predictable down to the twitch of an eyebrow, and Shamir should accept the facts and stop pretending like they can still read each other to that extent.

But now is, again, not the time to have that out with herself, so she trudges back toward the clearing. Cyril has emerged with water-slicked hair and slouched shoulders, his clothing damp but undisturbed. Catherine is already raising her fingers to her lips to whistle again.

“I heard you the first time,” Shamir tells her.

“Well, I didn’t hear you running back.”

“Because I wasn’t running. Running in this environment is too noisy, even with these shoes.” Shamir taps one of her boots on the ground, producing nary a sound but the faint rustling of a fallen leaf. She gestures over her shoulder. “There’s a clearing just up ahead. You can go set up there instead of waiting here.”

“Hey, why aren’t we setting up camp here, anyway?” interrupts Catherine, nodding to the pond. “There’s a water source and everything.”

Shamir quirks her head. “Exactly.”

Cyril’s face shutters with confusion, then lights again with realization. “That could attract all sorts of things,” he says, half-question and half-statement. He glances for confirmation at Shamir, who nods even when he averts his gaze in surprise at what is presumably muscle memory. “Other people could even wind up here. It’s an oasis.”

“Ah.” Catherine rubs the back of her neck, and Shamir ignores the droplets of water still clinging to her throat. “Well, you said it’s just right up ahead, yeah? So we’ll wait here.”

Her tone is casual enough, but the intent is clear: They can’t trust each other.

Shamir nods and sets off. Catherine might take it as a test of their allegiance, but again, Shamir is wholly unconcerned of the threat of them escaping or somehow betraying her back—there’s nothing to do and nowhere to run to. She doesn’t have the patience nor the energy to explain the unspoken ultimatum. If it isn’t necessary to her job, it isn’t necessary at all.

She’s in and out of the pond in under ten minutes. Catherine’s expression is nothing short of bewildered while Cyril’s is begrudgingly respectful.

They pick up again in silence, returning to the area Shamir had discovered. The silence is maintained, to Shamir’s relief, while they set up their things for the night; Shamir doesn’t doubt that she could push a little further, but she’s not the only one on this trip, and Cyril looks about ready to pass out, regardless of how he’s trying to hide it. From Shamir, she would assume, so as not to seem vulnerable, but he could be trying to ease Catherine’s stress as well.

But it doesn’t stop him from volunteering to hunt again. This time, however, Shamir accompanies him with a quiver full of poison-tipped arrows, an old Dagdan technique she doesn’t often use. (She doesn’t hunt much, and torture is pointless. If someone can die with an arrow to a vital organ, there’s no need to draw out their suffering with poison and excessive blood loss.)

Cyril doesn’t look keen to accept, but he and Shamir set off from opposite ends of the camp. Though Shamir overhears Cyril swearing from a distance after some time—he’s far from stealthy even in times like this—he returns with a couple of hares and a fish he’d managed to spear with an arrow. Shamir fells two boars, and by dinner (again silent)’s end, there’s still enough meat to divide and carry into tomorrow.

Already, Shamir feels herself settling into an unpleasant sort of routine. She doesn’t think further on it as they set off again in the morning.

*

One night, not three weeks before the siege of Fhirdiad, Shamir had woken in a cold sweat. Her dream had already faded from her memory by the time she’d opened her eyes, but it hadn’t been hard to guess what—who—it had been about. If she’d wanted to, Shamir could have rolled over and gone back to sleep—she’d known she would need all of the rest she could get in the weeks to come.

But the chance that she would have the same dream again had been too high. So she’d flung on a cloak—she always slept in her day clothes, never knowing what could happen during the night—and made her way out of the knights’ quarters (it had felt strange staying there again to begin with, especially since she’d spent more time sleeping on missions than she had there, but Shamir had gotten used to it). She’d made her footsteps quiet enough to not stir any unwanted attention. She’d escaped unimpeded and huffed as she stepped into her usual patrolling path around the monastery grounds.

The balmy air of early spring had made her wince. She hadn’t needed the cloak after all, it had seemed, but she had clutched it around her all the same, ignoring the prickling heat along the back of her neck.

She hadn’t expected to run into anyone this late. Hubert was the only one she’d known to be as nocturnal as she tended to be, and he would only be keeping watch over Edelgard… if he hadn’t shirked his duty in favor of staying in another room tonight. Shamir had shaken her head at the thought—if anyone could figure out a way to be in two places at once, it would be Hubert—and continued.

After the original attack staged by Seteth and Flayn, there had been little chance the monastery would be invaded by the Church again. But there had been no guarantee that individual assassins wouldn’t creep past the gates through bold-faced espionage or night-provided stealth. As much as the walk was for herself, Shamir had kept an eye out.

She’d weaved her way around the edges of buildings and along cobblestone paths. Garreg Mach’s layout seemed to be designed with the sheer intention of misleading its occupants; she’d had no clue how the professor managed to get around so fast.

When she’d turned the corner toward the training grounds, her expectations had been proven false. A shadow lurking in the distance had caught the corners of her eyes, and Shamir had stilled, grateful for the dark cloak that provided some semblance of camouflage.

Controlling her breathing and balancing her weight on her toes, Shamir had crept closer. The figure had been facing away from her, twisting their arms and mumbling in a low voice that had sparked some recognition. In the darkness, Shamir hadn’t been able to make out the gleam of any weapons upon their back, but there had been no saying what lurked under the cape fluttering in the light breeze.

Shamir had waited. She had tucked herself against one of the decorative trees and peered over her shoulder at the shadowy person in the distance. Probably not an assassin, but she hadn’t been able to strike the possibility altogether.

Then the figure had taken a deep, steeling breath and whirled toward her, and any chances of their intentions being malicious had vanished.

“I know you’re there!” Alois’s voice had boomed across the courtyard. Then had come the heavy, clunking sound of his boot as he’d taken a step forward, followed by the unsheathing of the axe on his hip. “Show yourself, fiend! I will not be so easily intimidated, I’ll have you know!”

Shamir had taken a moment to weigh her options. Either leave without a sound—doable, but leaving Alois to be on edge for the rest of the week with what he’d assumed he’d seen and heard—or show herself and relieve his fears. One would drag the entire army down. The other would prevent any sort of domino effect with the downside of a minor negative impact on Shamir herself. Five years ago, she might have taken the former option without hesitation.

Now, she’d sighed, loud enough for Alois to hear, and stepped forward. “Relax, Alois. It’s only me.” _Only_ had been a strange choice of words, given what they’d both known her to be capable of, but their camaraderie had had to count for something.

At her sudden appearance, Alois had stepped back and yelped, but he’d attempted to recover fast enough. “Oh! Shamir!” With a nervous laugh, he’d rubbed the back of his neck with the hand not holding his axe. “I hope you didn’t overhear anything, er, too embarrassing.”

“Nothing more than usual.” Shamir’s tone had been neutral, careful not to let any lingering unease slip through. Without giving him the chance to pry, she’d added, “What brings you out here this late? I was under the impression that you didn’t like being on the night guard because—”

“Because I’m terrified of ghosts, yes—don’t go shouting it all about for the people all the way in Sreng to hear,” Alois had hissed about as loudly as possible. Shamir, who had spoken in a normal voice, had not responded. Alois’s shoulders had dropped. “For what it’s worth,” he’d said, lower, “I felt strange about our security all of a sudden. Not that I don’t have faith in the usual night guard, of course! But, well, with the course of the war—”

“You couldn’t be sure. I understand.”

Alois had squinted. “Do you? I mean, given all you’ve confided in me—”

“It was a figure of speech.” Not that she had been fond of using them, with the lack of direct translations for those she was most familiar with. Dagdan was a language far less suited for the verbal poetry and beating around the bush present in Fódlan. “And the truth. I’m out here too, aren’t I?”

“Huh! Well, I suppose you are.” Alois had flashed her a grin that shone almost as brightly as his axe. Speaking of—

“Could you put that away?” Shamir had added. “I’m not bothered by it, but you have a tendency to gesture when you speak. I don’t intend on having my head chopped off by accident tonight.”

“Ah! I’m so sorry, Shamir, I’d truly forgotten—certainly so!” Grin bordering on self-deprecating, Alois had rested his axe back on his hip and dusted off his hands. “Why _are_ you here, come to think of it? I’m sure you are quite often, but this is the first time I’ve noticed you.”

Shamir hadn’t confirmed nor denied his suspicions. She had spent a normal amount of nights outside, and if he hadn’t noticed her, that was all the better, as far as she had been concerned. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I see. Nightmares?” Alois had asked, sparing a sympathetic grimace.

As soon as she’d opened her mouth to answer, Shamir had realized she hadn’t needed to after all. Alois had already been watching her with a thoughtful look. For all of his mannerisms and oddities, Shamir had thought but not voiced, he really was observant when he wanted to be—perhaps a little too much so. The thought of telling anyone beyond those she’d already let slip her dreams to made Shamir wince, as fond of Alois as she had been. He was loyal and true, she had reasoned, but his lips weren’t the tightest.

“What about?” he’d continued, though, scratching his chin. “I imagine they’re not of the same variety as mine.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Exhaustion had gathered under Shamir’s eyes, dragging her eyelids down; no doubt she would return to her room after this, though whether it was a placebo effect from talking to Alois she hadn’t yet known. “I should be heading back now. Goodnight, Alois.”

Alois had placed his hands on his hips. “Come now, Shamir, you can’t expect to get away with something like that.

“I understand,” Shamir had said, and she had. Alois was a good guy, she’d known, and if she’d asked him not to say anything, she’d known he wouldn’t—but it hadn’t so much been a secret as it had been something unsettling to Shamir, who hadn’t wanted to confess that much, let alone that it was about a matter of conscience. “But I really should get some more rest. As should you.”

Before she’d gone, Alois had reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder—the gesture had been, in a word, fatherly. “Whatever it is, you’ll be all right,” he’d told her, and Shamir had wished she could believe it.

*

Her feet are going the faintest bit numb beneath her, but Catherine pays the dull ache no heed. Between her original trip to the Itha Plains and this journey she’s been undertaking for the past couple of days, she’s growing used to the perpetual pins and needles in her legs.

If anything, the pain is a distraction itself more than it necessitates Catherine find one. Things have been far less tense than she’d expected, but only because of the sheer boredom.

She’s already lost track of the days again. Shamir has always been better at keeping track of this sort of thing, though Catherine doesn’t want to ask her now of all times. Maybe she’ll willingly volunteer it? No, that’s a slim enough possibility that Catherine grimaces at the mere thought—Shamir has a different understanding of what information is _essential_ or _nonessential_ than most people, and Catherine, often as she is excluded from the group of “most people,” she belongs to that category in comparison to Shamir.

The lack of overt tension isn’t to say there isn’t _any_ tension. Catherine would need both hands and Cyril’s to count the number of times she’s considered turning her blade upon Shamir already. She can’t get enough of a read off of Shamir yet, given how little she’s said, but she’d put gold on Shamir having thought the same thing about her. Not about Cyril, though, if only because Cyril is already miserable enough.

Catherine exhales through her nose. She keeps coming up with reasons she shouldn’t kill Shamir, as if to justify why her hands had been shaking back in Fhirdiad, even though all of the reasons had been absent then. Her list is disorganized and only existent in the vague tangle of her mind, but it goes something like:

One: She’s taking Catherine and Cyril to Enbarr, where she tells them they probably aren’t going to die. Probably. If they are sentenced to death or whatever, Catherine is sure she could take Hubert—maybe not Edelgard, but Catherine would go out fighting as hard as possible to bury her blade through the heart of the so-called Flame Emperor.

Two: Catherine and Cyril can’t go anywhere alone. Even if Catherine tries to escape, Cyril and his wyvern are still in poor enough shape that she won’t be able to take them very far, and she doubts Shamir’s horse would accompany them.

Three: If Shamir is ever presumed dead, which Catherine assumes will be the consensus if the notes she keeps sneaking away to write don’t make it back, undoubtedly a hoard of elite Imperial soldiers will be on their asses before long.

Four: All of these things considered, biding her time rather than making a rash decision—which could cost not only her life but Cyril’s—is best.

Five: Rinse and repeat.

Mostly, though, Catherine tries not to think about it. Whatever glory Shamir’s death would bring her would be short-lived for any number of shitty reasons she could come up with. Fleeting revenge fantasies are all well and good, but actually killing someone who had once been her partner in the Knights of Seiros, a trusted ally despite their circumstances—

It puts a sour taste under Catherine’s tongue.

Okay, now she does need a distraction besides the pain and numbness from walking. She looks around—nothing but trees and bushes. Since passing Fhirdiad, the places have blurred together alongside the days. Catherine had spent plenty of time in the capital, especially in her youth—she’d been born and raised a noble of Faerghus, after all, however little she likes to think of her upbringing—but now everything she sees is so bland and uninteresting.

It’s more irritating than it is sad. There had been no love lost when Catherine had left home, but now that the Empire has taken everything over—well, she doubts that’s the only factor into Faerghus’s decline, but still. It’s disappointing, that’s all. Another consequence of the war.

She doesn’t realize how far southeast they’ve gone until she sees Conand Tower looming in the distance. Catherine hadn’t been present for the Black Eagles’ assault upon it, but she recalls the stories the accompanying knights told for weeks afterward. Of the winding pathways they took, slaying bandits along the way; the final floor, reinforcements pouring up as they continued onward to fell their leader; how he’d refused to give up and transformed into a beast of unimaginable size and shape, a monster made grotesque by his avarice and ambition; how they’d had to pry the Lance of Ruin from the bloodied hands of the human corpse left behind.

(Most of all, Catherine remembers the stories told of how Edelgard had almost seemed impressed at what Miklan had accomplished—and above that, how the professor had kept the lance for their students instead of returning it to House Gautier as Rhea had requested.)

She shakes the bad taste filling her mouth again and watches the tower as the landscape rolls past, almost expecting it to transmogrify into a beast itself. It juts out from the ground like an ink-stained bone from skin. Though it isn’t that tall, its raw, unnatural presence is palpable even from here. Chills would run up and down Catherine’s arms even without the knowledge of what had once happened inside.

Her gaze snaps away before she can walk into a tree or anything so embarrassing. However, her attention is soon drawn elsewhere: To the sky, wherein the sun isn’t quite setting yet but the hues of cloud-veiled blue are beginning to fade and darken, and to Cyril, lagging behind.

Catherine pauses. “We should make camp soon, shouldn’t we?” she calls.

Shamir glances over her shoulder with such a flat expression that Catherine at first thinks she’s made some horrific error. Then she remembers—no, that’s just Shamir.

“I agree,” says Shamir, inclining her head.

“You could at least look like it,” mumbles Catherine.

Shamir doesn’t hear or ignores her (more likely the latter), though Cyril looks away before he can snort. “Let’s go on another mile or so,” continues Shamir, “then stop when we can hear running water. If we get to the other side of the Llew River before making camp, we should be able to reach the Leicester border within the next few days.”

That’s faster than Catherine had expected. She supposes they’ve not yet covered even a third of the journey, given the relative distances between the Itha Plains and the Leicester border versus both borders of the Leicester Alliance, but the impatience clawing at her skin makes it seem like they’ve been traveling far longer than they have.

Catherine glances back at Cyril. Her and Shamir’s slowed steps have allowed him to catch up, leaning in part on his wyvern, and Catherine asks in an undertone, “Are you good to go for a little longer?”

“Yeah, I should be.” Cyril gives her a smile that appears, for all intents and purposes, genuine. “Between the vulneraries and your healing magic—”

On sheer instinct, Catherine shushes him. She can’t explain why, but she doesn’t want Shamir to know about her newfound abilities—maybe it’s out of remnant pettiness, which she has plenty of. To her relief, Shamir doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

Cyril lowers his voice. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Anyway, I’m doing better now, I think.”

“All right. And you’ll let me know if that changes?”

“Sure thing,” says Cyril, but he’s looking away, a line of tension between his eyebrows.

Catherine clenches her jaw. There’s only so much she can do if he doesn’t want the extra help—he’s always intent on shouldering everything himself, whether to repay debts on his own or to prove himself capable. His near-fatal injuries are a _little_ different than chore assignments, but Catherine doesn’t want to push him when they’re already thin hairs away from their limits.

So she brushes her knuckles against his uninjured shoulder in gentle encouragement and keeps her gaze ahead.

*

True to Shamir’s word, they set up camp after they trudge across the shabby wooden bridge running over a thin section of the Llew River (Cyril’s wyvern and Shamir’s horse traipse right through the water proper). To Shamir’s relief, the area has heavy tree cover. Almost too heavy; they have to walk another twenty minutes before they’re able to find an area clear enough to squeeze in their bedrolls and a small fire. The process from there is simple: They set up, eat what they can, and hover in a disjointed circle before Shamir steps away to position herself to take watch for the night.

Except it doesn’t go quite that way. As soon as Shamir starts toward the trees, Cyril clears his throat and steps away from his snoring wyvern.

“I’ll keep watch with you,” he says, almost an announcement. “At least for a little while.”

His jaw, firmer than when Shamir had last seen him up close, is set. She only nods, as opposed to Catherine’s blatant shock. But Catherine doesn’t protest either—all she does is muss Cyril’s hair, reserves, before heading off to sleep. She almost trips over a rock on her way there and finishes the trip to her bedroll with a series of muttered curses.

Shamir situates herself at the edge of the clearing without further ado. Cyril takes a seat on the ground a little further back. He’s always had clearer eyes than she does; it hadn’t done him much good in the smoke of Fhirdiad, but had the conditions of the battle been clearer, maybe he would have truck down Shamir after all.

She dismisses the thought as soon as it occurs. She’s not here to stir up the past, she reminds herself.

Given the tone of her scarce interactions with Cyril over the past few days, Shamir is expecting tense silence and occasional glares in her directions. That would be easy to tolerate. She works best in silence, and she’s grown used to odd looks, which have likely been aimed at her back for days.

What she struggles to deal with is Cyril, out of the corners of her eyes, sighing and pulling out a string of prayer beads. They don’t look like the rosaries gripped by some among the Church; they seem to be of Almyran make. They’re made of wood pale enough to almost glow gold in the night.

The visual alone wouldn’t be too distracting, but soon Cyril’s hands twist around his prayer beads. His thumb runs down each bead, counting them out. The dull sounds fill the silence in a way that’s neither unpleasant nor satisfying—it’s only unnecessary.

It’s only after a moment of attempting to tune out the noise that it occurs to Shamir: Why does Cyril have the beads? They haven’t encountered anyone in their travels, and it’s unlikely any merchants selling Almyran goods would be as far north into Faerghus as the Itha Plains, even with Edelgard’s steps toward improved diplomatic relations between the reunified Fódlan and the rest of the world. He must have had them when he and Catherine arrived in the Itha Plains, then. Which means he’d had them in Fhirdiad.

“Where are those from?” asks Shamir. If he’s already making noise, there’s no point in her observing in flat silence.

Cyril jolts, jarred from his concentration. Since his eyes are open and fixed forward and his legs are bent up, he doesn’t seem to have been praying. “Oh,” he says, reasonably startled by Shamir initiating a conversation. He resumes toying with the beads. “Uh, I’ve had ‘em with me since Almyra. I thought I might’ve needed them in Fhirdiad. For guidance, or something.” He shakes his head. “Stupid, I know.”

“If it helped you, it’s not stupid.” Shamir’s voice slips into a familiar tone without her realizing. She busies herself with scanning between the trees for any odd shadows rather than wincing.

“Yeah, I guess.” Cyril sounds appeased, if still uncomfortable. “I did need guidance, anyway. Not that these helped anyway.”

Shamir offers a fleeting glance. “You’re sitting here now,” she reminds him. “Alive and mostly well.”

“Hm.” Cyril’s thumb stutters in its path. “I guess I am.”

The silence save for the shifting of the beads rises up again, and Shamir slows her breathing as she lets the sound fade into the background. She could use some mindfulness.

“I don’t trust you,” blurts Cyril, as if to remind himself more so than Shamir.

Though apropos of nothing, the words don’t unnerve nor surprise Shamir. “Good,” she says simply, eyes on the dark sky. “You shouldn’t.”

Through her peripheral vision, she catches Cyril’s face twist. “How the hell can you just—say stuff like that?” he demands, voice sharper than Shamir has ever heard it. She tamps down on the sense of inordinate pride that swells within her. “We _have_ to trust you right now. We have to work with you, so we’ve gotta trust you. Even though you left us to fight for the person who killed Lady Rhea, and you’re here now ‘cause you’re working for her.” His hand tightens on the prayer beads, gripping so hard they almost look ready to snap off. “But you’re telling me we shouldn’t do that.”

“You can work alongside people without trusting them.” It’s something Shamir knows from experience. Her mouth settles into a firm line.

“Have you? Do you trust—Edelgard?” He says her name like she’s a bogeyman. Shamir isn’t planning on answering in the first place, but Cyril doesn’t give her a chance to: “Did you ever even trust Lady Rhea? Did you even trust Catherine when you guys were partners?” The barrage of questions almost seems like an accident. Shamir finds herself frozen, unable to answer, and Cyril jumps to his feet in shock. “I’m—I’m gonna go sleep,” he manages, stuffing the string of beads back into his pocket. “I’m not gonna apologize, but—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, already stumbling off to his bedroll and leaving her to complete the watch by herself. It had been a foregone conclusion—he’d only said he’d keep watch with her for “a little while,” and no doubt he doesn’t want to spend much time with her. Still, the remaining silence feels somewhat empty without the shifting of his beads.

The question rattles at the back of her brain as Shamir watches the treeline for any company she needs to silence. Nothing happens, and by the time she allows herself to sleep, she hasn’t come up with an answer even in the privacy of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! _next time_ : an argument and a confession. as always, comments and kudos are super appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	4. don't go quietly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter four: violence (explicit but not necessarily graphic), death (not of anyone major), non-graphic and not-actual major character death in dreams, and, in the flashback, hostile family dynamics bordering on -- though never explicitly crossing into -- emotional abuse/manipulation.
> 
> this will be the longest chapter in the fic unless something goes horribly wrong (or right, depending on your outlook?) later on. chapter title from "combat baby" by metric. enjoy!

Two more days of travel pass with as few interactions as possible. Shamir limits her speaking to directions and suggestions of when and where to stop for the night. Catherine and Cyril don’t push it, though she does notice Cyril passing her more questioning looks, no doubt influenced by their conversation on the night Cyril had taken watch with her. She ignores them as best she can. The question is inconsequential in the end, she reasons, and dwelling on it won’t help any of them.

The lack of speaking means Shamir gets more time to think. She meditates as often as possible to keep herself from getting too distracted. Her feelings, at least, don’t take it upon themselves to invade her every thought; it seems her brain has gotten the message that she’s on a mission.

But her thoughts turning to the landscape and route isn’t helpful either. Shamir has already memorized the path, having spent a painstaking amount of time plotting things out—and coming up with alternatives for the inevitability that something would fail—and her movements are almost mechanical. Every additional alternative she’s come up with thus far has been no more efficient than their current course.

What is remotely useful is the distant knowledge that they’ll be in Charon territory within the next several days. Shamir won’t mention it until they’re at its doorstep, but Catherine grows stiffer the closer they get.

Cyril starts carrying himself tighter as well. Shamir assumes that this is in reaction to Catherine, since she can’t imagine he’s aware of the territory they’re marching into or Catherine’s history with it—she’d only divulged such details to Shamir, even, under Shamir’s semi-judgmental gaze after an encounter with some ex-fling-turned-dissident who’d recognized them on one unfortunate mission. (Shamir hadn’t asked, but Catherine had been a little drunk.) Aside from this, though, Cyril seems to be growing more confident in his strides and more comfortable with his healing injuries.

Around this point, Shamir also reflects upon how roundabout her path toward the Leicester border—as she’s still thinking of it despite the current status of Fódlan—is. They’d passed Conand Tower not long ago, but instead of pressing farther into Galatea territory, Shamir had taken a sharp twist toward Charon territory. Going east around the mountains would lead them right into the Valley of Torment. As acclimated as she is to all temperatures, Shamir can’t say the same for her targets.

Therefore, she’s taking the slower—but far easier to traverse—detour accessible at the edge of Charon. She isn’t sure who else knows of it; Catherine might, given her background, but she wouldn’t bet money on it. Shamir had only discovered it by accident.

Not that Shamir will mention any of this until necessary. Her only advantage right now is her extensive preparations—she’ll be in a more advantageous position when they get through the Alliance and into the Empire, but she’s less familiar with Kingdom territory than at least Catherine. She’d like to cling to whatever higher ground she has now.

It does enter her thoughts how odd it is that they’ve not had any substantial encounters with bandits or even average travelers yet, but then, Shamir is very careful. Still, she makes sure she’s prepared for their luck to run out.

She distracts herself by speeding up. Catherine and Cyril both seem to be in healthy states of recovery, as does Cyril’s wyvern, though how in these conditions—the time period and their prior lack of supplies—is anyone’s guess. While Shamir doesn’t want to push them too hard, she’d at least like them to be back in Enbarr before the year’s end. Her horse’s reins in hand, she sets a brisk pace with a fair distance between her and her targets.

Midway through the second day after seeing the Conand Tower, a messenger raven shows up. Shamir hands it her latest note and blinks when it returns two envelopes. Hubert doesn’t send messages unless there’s necessary information, of which she doubts there would be any at this stage.

A quick glance proves that neither message is from him. One is from Petra; the other lacks a return address but bears the seal of House Bergliez. Shamir’s only just glanced them over when, as soon as it had appeared, the raven flies off again.

From behind her, Catherine calls, “What did you get?”

“I’m not sure,” Shamir calls back, half-truth and half-lie of omission. She can hazard a guess as to the contents of the envelope, but it isn’t like she’s going to share anything. There should be a reason they arrived via Hubert’s makeshift postal service.

Or Petra and Caspar had somehow pinned down the raven and convinced it to take some extra messages. Shamir wouldn’t put it past them.

She shakes her curiosity—not the time for it—and puts her focus back on the mission. The hiccup behind them, they continue onward, silence accumulating once more.

Later, on watch (which she takes firmly by herself), once she’s gauged that both Catherine and Cyril are asleep from Catherine’s quiet snores, Shamir cracks open the envelopes with both ears still sharp for any nearby dangers.

Petra’s contains a letter that Shamir skims through with mental promises to read it in full and reply to later. She seems to only be updating Shamir on how her life has been going—busy, with foreign, domestic, and personal affairs alike—and asking after how Shamir’s is going.

Shamir’s glances make for a smooth read. Petra’s handwriting is neat, and her writing is more confident and steady than her speech tends to be, though some phrases have been crossed out and replaced. The Brigid language is removed enough from Dagdan that the only language they can speak in is Fódlan’s. It doesn’t make Shamir guilty or upset, but there is always something special about communicating in one’s native tongue, and it’s been years since Shamir spoke to another in Dagdan. Petra’s situation is different from hers, but still, Shamir will have to study up in the future.

The other envelope contains no such letter. Instead, a simple folded message lists out the names of various merchants and the goods they offer. Caspar’s handwriting is unmistakable. Shamir can’t begin to comprehend why he sent such a thing, as it seems the information would be more useful to him, Linhardt, and Bernadetta, but she commits it to memory anyway.

She also finds a small pressed flower that smells faintly of Bernadetta’s favorite perfume inside the envelope. Shamir runs a thumb along a petal. Linhardt has, of course, sent nothing, but that’s par for the course. She wonders how the three of them are doing on their travels.

A louder snore from Catherine jolts her from her concentration. In silence, Shamir folds everything back up into their envelopes and tucks them into her pockets again.

The envelopes are light enough that there isn’t any extra weight on her, but nevertheless, she feels heavier for the rest of the night.

*

The next day of travel goes similarly, minus the appearance of a messenger raven. Familiar terrain, no unwanted encounters, silence save for the wind. When they stop for the night, on the outskirts of Charon territory and by extension their pathway into the Leicester Alliance, Shamir gains another unbidden guest for her watch.

After eating, Catherine doesn’t say a word—not to Cyril, who makes his way to his bedroll with nothing but a wary glance; not to Shamir; not even under her breath—as she plants herself beside Shamir. Shamir shifts to the side to cover more ground and expand the physical distance between them. Catherine doesn’t follow, but her eyes do.

It doesn’t take long for a tense silence to build. Shamir ignores it as she sorts through her arrows again. The lack of any attacks is more disturbing than relieving, and she doesn’t want to be caught off-guard by an ambush. Should she fail in her self-assigned duty to protect Catherine and Cyril as long as they’re in transit—

Normally, it wouldn’t be too big of a deal on a personal level. She isn’t getting paid as much for this job as others in the past, and only one of her employers would be upset. But as for Shamir—

Before she allows herself to finish that train of thought, Catherine clears her throat. Shamir looks up with a jolt of relief.

“I was wondering something.”

Shamir says nothing in response, continuing only to watch Catherine, silhouetted by darkness and moonlight. She slides her arrows back into her quiver almost on instinct.

When nothing is forthcoming, Catherine coughs. She looks uncomfortable and irritable, gaze bordering on a glare as she regards Shamir, but perhaps in recognition of how futile any negative feelings are, her tone is flat in a way that seems forced. “You don’t sleep at the same time we do. Even when Cyril kept watch with you, it probably took you hours to go to bed.” Catherine opens her mouth as if to add something—likely a comment about Shamir’s sleep schedule in years past—and then closes it again. Then she asks, “Why?”

Shamir wants to dismiss the question as unnecessary, but she can’t help a blink of acknowledgment. “I can run on less sleep than other people.” It’s not accusatory nor smug, just a statement.

“Just because you _can_ do something doesn’t mean you _should_.” This time, some resentment slips into her voice.

Shamir had never expected to hear that from Catherine of all people, and she almost snorts before catching herself. In hopes of getting this conversation to end, her answer is honest: “I dream. It’s distracting.”

“You… dream.” Catherine shakes her head with disbelief. “I didn’t picture you as the type to put much stock in that sort of thing.”

“I don’t.” The Church likes (liked, Shamir supposes) to present dreams as often prophetic and chock-full of meaning relating back to their beliefs, but most of the time, dreams really are just dreams. “But mine tend to be unsettling, regardless of any hidden depth.”

Catherine’s lips twitch. “What would be unsettling to you?”

Shamir doesn’t take the bait. Rather than mentioning some minor fear like the many-legged creatures that fill her less disturbing dreams, she says, “I used to dream of you killing me.”

It’s more of a confession than she could have ever whispered to a goddess she holds no affection for nor faith in. She’s only told two people in such frank terms: Byleth, their impassivity familiar enough that she’s comfortable confiding in them, and Hubert, who entertains similar thoughts that walk the tightrope between nightmares and dreams.

The dreams haunted her since her first stand at Garreg Mach, seeing Catherine across the battlefield. That had been the image she’d seen most often: Catherine, gaze fire-forged and hair somehow unbound, bloodied but all the more determined for it, whether carrying out a solo ambush or standing with an army at her back. A sword at Shamir’s throat, through her heart, buried in her abdomen, slicing at her limbs. The way and location in which Shamir met her end were never quite the same, but Catherine had been a constant. Those dreams had stopped since Fhirdiad, but worse images had replaced them.

That doesn’t matter now. Certain as Shamir is that Hubert has intuited something from her frequent dark circles, she hasn’t shared the nature of her more recent dreams with anyone. She doesn’t even let her think of them outside of the late hours of the night.

And besides, her dreams of dying at Catherine’s hands have cropped up again as of late. Two guesses as to the cause of that.

When Shamir blinks again, Catherine is staring at her, scarred face warped with surprise. “Used to,” she echoes instead of focusing on the main part of Shamir’s confession. “You don’t anymore?”

“Irrelevant.”

Frustration crosses Catherine’s face again, and she mutters something along the lines of, _You are so fucking frustrating_. Shamir ignores it. She’s heard worse and refuses to get into a fight now of all times. Crickets chirp around them, come alive with the warmer weather.

As always, Catherine breaks the silence. “Can I ask another question?”

“Is this an interrogation?” _Or a childish game of twenty questions?_

“No. Just—when you said they wouldn’t kill us,” chances Catherine, tapping her fingers against her knee (a clear tell of her agitation, at odds with the forcibly solid line of her mouth), “were you telling the truth?”

Shamir stares back with painstaking indifference. “If I weren’t,” she says, “why would I be any more honest now?”

Catherine’s brow twitches. She never learns. “Well—”

“You could hold Thunderbrand to my throat again. Maybe that would change things.”

“It was never to your throat in the first place!” Catherine’s voice goes a little too high, and she tosses a frantic glance over her shoulder, but Cyril doesn’t seem to have stirred. “Shit,” she mutters. Her glare returns to Shamir, as if it’s somehow her fault.

Catherine’s narrowed eyes might as well be a blade to Shamir’s pulse point. Shamir looks forward. “Well, I’ll repeat myself, then. I don’t know what Hubert plans on doing—” she can only guess at his intentions “—but I doubt Edelgard would let him execute you unless she thought you were an active threat to nationwide peace. And even then, I expect she would endeavor to hear you out.”

“Hear us out, huh?” Catherine rolls her eyes. “I didn’t think the Flame Emperor was much in the habit of listening.”

“Maybe you should listen to her more.”

At that, Catherine snorts. “Did she listen to Lady Rhea before she slaughtered her and the rest of the Church personnel? You heard her say flat-out that she never believed in Lady Rhea or the Goddess.” The irony of Catherine’s words seems to hit her, and her shoulders tighten. “But neither did you.”

“I didn’t.”

A beat of silence. Then Catherine mutters, so quiet that Shamir doubts she’s meant to hear, “I don’t understand you.”

She doesn’t pretend like she hasn’t heard. “That makes two of us.”

( _“We have nothing in common,”_ Catherine had said at Fhirdiad, her sword bathed crimson by the flames and her face turned unreadable by the darkness and passage of time. _“Not our backgrounds, not our beliefs.”_

“ _Not the way we lived,”_ Shamir had agreed, _“or the way we’ll die.”_ )

Catherine’s teeth grind together. “Where do we go from here?”

“Enbarr, eventually.”

“That’s not what I meant,” snaps Catherine, like Shamir hadn’t known that. “And anyway, at this rate, one or both of us will be dead by the time we get there.”

Shamir’s fingers twitch. She doesn’t point out that, accounting for Catherine’s physical state and the way things had gone in Fhirdiad, it’s a real tossup—and one set of odds she doesn’t want to test or gamble on. Only time will tell the outcome.

“You’re the one having difficulties working with me.” When Catherine doesn’t immediately protest, Shamir adds, unsure whom she’s trying to convince, “It’s a mission. You’ve carried out countless missions before.”

“I’ve never _been_ the mission before.”

Shamir looks away. “If you want to fight,” she says, letting her weariness show for once, “then fight me. But that isn’t my goal, and I doubt it’s yours either.”

For a moment, she thinks Catherine will take her up on her offer, bare fists covered in dirt, scars, and dried blood and all—she’s quite the skilled brawler, so unless Shamir plays dirty and pulls a dagger, she’s sure the dice weigh more firmly in Catherine’s favor. Catherine’s eyes are glazed with fleeting anger. Both fists are clenched at her sides, knuckles bruised white.

But the moment passes, and the hard line of her jaw softens as she exhales. “It’s not worth it,” she decides, more aggravation showing in those tight words than anything else. “I have more to lose than gain.”

“Haven’t you already lost plenty?”

It’s a cruel thing to say, Shamir will admit, and she’s not certain why she says it. Catherine’s lips purse with fury and shock. But after another deep breath, she jerks a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing toward Cyril’s sleeping form and the wyvern curled around him.

Shamir nods. She hadn’t wanted to talk in the first place, and she isn’t going to sucker punch Catherine.

She expects Catherine to head off to bed when the silence becomes too much. She’s proved wrong when Catherine doesn’t move to leave. She seems—not content, maybe, but resigned to stay here all night should Shamir not relent. A blatant power play, and not even a good one, but nostalgia, tamped down as soon as it pops up, seeps through Shamir’s chest anyway.

“We’ll be in Charon territory tomorrow,” says Shamir, implication clear: _Prepare yourself._

Catherine’s only answer is a grunt. Shamir looks away and says nothing more.

*

The last time Catherine had returned to Charon, she’d been twenty-eight and still reeling from Edelgard’s brazen betrayal. (She’d at least been trying to convince herself it was all because of Edelgard.)

In the wake of Dimitri’s coronation, most of the Faerghus nobles had outright sworn fealty to the Church or allied themselves with them in brief skirmishes. They hadn’t exactly been _winning_ the war, but Catherine had thought they’d made good strides; they hadn’t been losing either, which she’d considered the closest thing to victory they would get for years to come.

The support of various houses hadn’t hurt. Fraldarius and Gautier had pledged to make up for their turncoat heirs. Galatea’s only Crested daughter had returned with revenge on her mind, though against whom Catherine hadn’t so much as guessed. In the absence of its only remaining successor, turned traitor as well, Gaspard’s remaining knights had risen to fight. Rowe’s allegiance had been without question. A feeling of loyalty—to Faerghus’s king and its religion alike—had enveloped the entire region, and it had been as inspiring to Catherine as anything.

There had still been those yet to act, though. One in particular had remained without any clear alliances: House Charon.

Catherine had tiptoed around the subject as long as she could bring herself to, but there had eventually been no hiding how in need of Charon’s assistance they were. And of course she’d had to volunteer to ask herself, because she hadn’t wanted to make anyone else put up with… that.

Dimitri could have gone, but Dimitri hadn’t been in any state to do much, and as little loyalty as Catherine held to the nation of Faerghus in and of itself, he was still technically her king. Cyril had been too occupied with everything else he had begun busying himself with. And Catherine had found herself lacking in a partner. The closest person left would have been _Lady Rhea_ , and that hadn’t been an option—no way would Catherine ask her to do something on that scale.

So she’d made the journey to the place she’d once called home alone, heart sinking further with every step. Not the worst thing Catherine had ever done in her life, but far from the best.

She had pushed on through to be there by dawn, in part because she’d known her father never woke before noon. Sure enough, it had taken almost thirty minutes from her arrival for him to meet her in the conference room. It hadn’t been remodeled since Catherine had last been inside; it bore a faint resemblance to the war council room back at Garreg Mach that Catherine would never sit in again so long as Edelgard maintained an ironclad grip over it.

She’d dismissed this thought as soon as her father had stepped in. The only indication that he hadn’t been wide awake beforehand had been the spot of stubble on his chin and the messy quality to his dark hair. Otherwise, his scowl had been as alert as ever.

“Cassandra,” he’d said through his teeth. Catherine had expected him to be missing some, since he’d been getting up there in years. To her disappointment, he’d still seemed to have all of them.

“Father,” she’d greeted. In the time she’d waited, the family dog—an aging Blaiddyd Rex that, in all honesty, belonged to second-youngest Cynthia—had come to lie at her feet. She’d scratched behind his soft ears to lessen the impact of her father’s glare. It hadn’t hurt in a blatant way, because she’d long stopped caring what her father thought of her, but there had been a sting somewhere deep within her ribcage.

Count Charon had continued looking at her. His eyes—a shade lighter than hers—had been as intimidating as ever, though Catherine had met them with as much confidence as she did any Demonic Beast. He’d paused in the doorway, as if tempted to walk away, but remained there. Scraping a hand through his hair, he’d asked, “What is it you need now?”

That was how their interactions had always gone. Nothing like, _How are you doing, Catherine?—Oh, I’m fine; how are you, Father?_ Not a casual, _We heard about the literal war that you’re headlining now._ Not even a, _How long has it been since we’ve seen each other, my beloved second child?_

No, Count Charon’s tone had been cold and brutal. Business only. A part of Catherine had wished she had been surprised.

She’d sat forward. “As I expect you’ve heard, the Adrestian Empire has waged war against the Church of Seiros,” she’d said, waiting for her father to nod. He had, and she’d cleared her throat before continuing, “As of now, House Charon remains neutral. We were hoping we could sway you to our side.”

“We?” Count Charon had asked, eyebrow arched. “I don’t see anyone accompanying you.”

“I didn’t want any of my colleagues among the knights to go out of their way.” _Or have to deal with your shitty attitude,_ she hadn’t added. Tempting as it had been, it would have also defeated the purpose of her visit. “You’re Kingdom nobles, so the Empire will treat you as an enemy by default. You’re close enough to Garreg Mach Monastery—which they’ve conquered as a base—that your territory could be used as a foothold into the rest of the Kingdom.”

“They’d have to get through the mountains first, and that’s a suicide mission,” her father had pointed out.

Already, Catherine’s pitch had been off to a poor start. She’d fought onward nonetheless. “You think they care about something like that? I’ve seen their leaders in action. They care not a whit for their men, nor the innocents they trample along the way to their goals.”

“Isn’t their leader one of your former students? Little Princess Edelgard.”

“Emperor now,” Catherine had said darkly, not bothering to point out that she hadn’t been a teacher. “And the only thing _little_ about her is her height. Do you want to surrender your territory to someone as ruthless as her?”

Count Charon had rested his shoulder against the door frame. “Well, I don’t know,” he’d said, blase in a way Catherine had always loathed. “I haven’t received such a zealous speech from this ruthless Emperor Edelgard herself.”

“Are you—” Red had flashed through Catherine’s vision. “Are you fucking serious? Thousands will die because of this war Edelgard started. _Lady_ _Rhea_ will die if we’re not careful,” she had added, hand snapping off the dog’s head in favor of curling into a fist in her lap. Her blunt nails had clawed at her fleshy, worn palms.

“Are _you_ serious, Cassandra?” her father had asked, tone gaining an edge. “I see you’re still insistent upon playing at being a knight.”

“What do you mean, _playing at_?” Catherine’s demand had almost propelled her to her feet, but she’d stayed her legs. Better to come off a fool than a fool with a temper. “I am a proud member of the Knights of Seiros. I serve in the name of Lady Rhea and the Goddess.”

“You could have had a life here.” Her father hadn’t raised his voice, and somehow it had made him more intimidating as he’d stepped further into the room with a wicked twist to his expression. “You could do great things in the name of the king—not to mention House Charon. And yet you’ve thrown it all away for some pretty figurehead. How well do you even know the archbishop you hold so dear?” For all of the piety he’d so clung to, his tone had turned mocking around her title.

“Better than I know some people,” Catherine had snarled, trying not to think about how Shamir had stood by the professor’s side as they’d plowed through the Church’s forces. She’d sat back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I don’t want to fight over this again. I’m just here to ask for any assistance you can offer. Soldiers, supplies, plans, a basic fucking word of support—”

“Don’t raise your voice under my roof,” Count Charon had snapped back.

“I’m _almost thirty_.” It had been more to herself than him, though no doubt he’d taken it as yet another slight. “I don’t live here anymore.”

Her father had seemed to catch himself before he could shout back. Instead, he’d stepped back with his arms folded, looking deep in thought for a long moment. She’d half-expected—and half-wanted—him to leave when he’d said, slow, “No. No, you don’t.”

Catherine had studied him as he’d lapsed back into silence. She hadn’t expected anything close to an apology, but the hope occurred to her anyway—that maybe her words had gotten through to him for once. The dog’s head had pressed up into her hand again. Teeth digging into her cheek, Catherine had patted his cheek and heard the distant thumping of his tail under the table.

“Fine,” her father had said, then, tapping his arm. “We’ll provide the Church of Seiros with whatever they so desire. Within reason,” he’d added, sharp.

Catherine’s head had snapped up, her hand momentarily slipping. “Are you serious?” she’d asked again, wide-eyed but unwilling to get her hopes too high up.

“If this war is being waged against the Goddess, then surely she could serve to bless Charon with some of her favor should we provide assistance.” Catherine had deflated somewhat—of course his motivations had been selfish. She had only been able to guess at what he hadn’t mentioned: Political clout, military awards, perhaps financial blessings from the Church. How evil, Catherine had thought, to exploit Lady Rhea’s needs for his personal gain. “I’ll go speak with some of my guards. Your Lady Rhea—” again he’d sneered “—shall hear from me before long.” He’d hesitated once more, and before Catherine could delude herself into thinking he would say something bordering on constructive, he’d tilted his chin back and said: “If that will be all, you know the way out.”

As her father had left, not waiting for her response, Catherine had gnashed her teeth. She’d scratched behind the dog’s ears just to dig her nails into something. He’d basked in the scratches without a care in the world for the reasons behind them. He was, Catherine had decided, the only one worthy of carrying the Charon name.

The clicking of heels had announced the presence of Catherine’s mother, draped in a pale blue nightrobe that skirted her ankles. Having not prepared to run into any other family members this morning, Catherine had looked around in panic for any opportunity to leave while she still could, but her mother had been standing in the only exit. She’d sunk down in her seat.

Countess Charon had offered a gentlewomanly smile. “Catherine.”

“Mother.” Catherine’s mother had at least been a better alternative, but that wasn’t saying much. The most she had ever done in Catherine’s favor was call her by her name. “How much of that did you hear?”

Her mother had looked away, meaning that the answer was _all of it_. At odds with (or complementing, depending on what angle one looked at it from) her noble upbringing, she’d been trained as an assassin at the Officers Academy. Even Catherine had been startled by her presence far too many times.

“Right,” Catherine had muttered.

“Your father has always been—stubborn,” Countess Charon had said, diplomatic. She’d reached up to curl a lock of hair—long and blonde enough to contrast with her brown skin, kept in a neater braid than her husband’s rough style—around her finger. “And passive except in matters of self-preservation. You must understand, dear—”

“I understand plenty.” Catherine had drummed her nails on the edge of the table. The dog had slunk away to rub at her mother’s ankles—another remorseless abandonment.

Countess Charon had patted the dog’s head without bending or looking away from Catherine. “Would you at least have a cup of tea with me before you go?”

No one had seemed to understand that there was a _war_ going on that Catherine had to fight in. “I really can’t. Sorry,” Catherine had added as an afterthought, though she hadn’t been. If talking with her mother normally weren’t bad enough, then having tea together was a death sentence.

“Right. Well—” Her mother had huffed, folded her arms, and raised her gaze with an expression that told Catherine she was going to hate what she said next. “On the note of what your father said,” Countess Charon had continued, tentative but firm, and Catherine had winced in slight vindication, “I really don’t understand why you won’t step in as the future Countess Charon. Or Count, if you so prefer.” She’d eyed Catherine’s armor. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you’d surely charm all of the suitable noblemen throughout Faerghus—”

Catherine had groaned and stared at the ceiling, hoping its intricate patterns might somehow relieve her of her woes. “Mother, for the last time, I’m not interested in men. Least of all noblemen.”

Her mother had sighed right back. “Well, then, you could marry a suitable noble _woman_. Fódlan is changing. There are alternatives to blood heirs—”

“What’s the point? I’m not even the eldest.” Her sister Helena had beaten her out of first place by a year and refused to stop lording it over Catherine’s head since. But Countess Charon’s jaw had been set, and Catherine had huffed, more muted. “Look, I’ll have a nice chat with Helena when this war is over. There’ll be no shortage of Charon heirs to go around—she and her husband have plenty of kids already, Dominic has his twins, and Cynthia got married last fall. I figure you’re going to get Phillip married off soon enough too.” He’d just turned nineteen and completed his stint at Garreg Mach the year prior.

Countess Charon had pursed her lips, but she’d folded her hands at her waist in apparent defeat. “I suppose so. Fine—we’ll talk about this later.” Some pessimistic part of Catherine had pointed out that depending on the trajectory of the war, _later_ could wind up being _never_ , but she’d suppressed the feeling. _“_ You’ll be leaving now, I expect.”

“Have I mentioned the war that’s going on, Mother?” Catherine had asked, already making to stand. The dog had come back over to her, and she’d mumbled, “Good boy,” as she’d let him lick her hand. “Goodbye, Mother,” she’d said without looking up. “Tell Father I said so too.”

Demure, her mother had nodded. Catherine had given the dog one last pet between his shoulder blades before storming out and turning her back on the Charon estate before her father and siblings could track her down.

She’d not known then that it would be the last time she’d see Charon for another five years, but that would, in hindsight, be a foregone conclusion.

*

In the morning, Catherine wakes to the bright light of dawn boring into her skull. Immediately, she rolls over and screws her eyes shut to spend the next thirty minutes working herself through the prospect of being back on her biological family’s turf, all the while hearing boots rustle about around her.

It won’t be, she tries to tell herself, as bad as she’s preparing herself for. Given Shamir’s skill for stealthy navigation, they shouldn’t run into anyone, let alone House Charon themselves. Catherine gnashes her teeth. Worst-case scenarios do not often occupy her mind—all she allows for them are beats of several seconds, if that, and her facade of nonchalance never crumbles under pressure; if anything, it gets stronger out of spite. So she’ll psyche herself up for a light, easy day if she has to fight someone for it.

When she brings herself to stand, the first thing Shamir says is, “We should be able to start traveling into the evenings by tomorrow. You’ve both recovered enough to handle covering more ground, and we should be able to move faster overall.”

Buoyed by her internal confidence, Catherine doesn’t question it. Cyril, too, seems inspired by the information. Shamir almost looks surprised at how easily they take the flat announcement, though any hint of any emotion other than cold indifference dissipates after a moment as she turns away.

As they continue on into the afternoon, however, Catherine’s residual doubts start to weigh on her. The sun is hot and heavy, southern Faerghus summer kicking in, painting freckles onto her skin and melting another layer of arrogance with each drop of sweat down her jaw or underneath each dip of fat on her body. Even for someone like Catherine, it’s hard to have coherent thoughts when her undershirt won’t stop sticking to her skin.

Their surroundings are too familiar, too, adding an edge. “Why are we going toward Leicester this way, anyway?” she calls after a while of eyeing the trees around them for any discernible shadows. “The mountains are right up ahead, so unless we’re going to take the long way straight into the Empire, which would take longer than going through the Alliance—”

“You’ll see,” is all Shamir will say on that front. Catherine is starting to regret not fighting her the night before.

They walk and walk and walk, going deeper into Charon territory (Catherine realizes with a start that she doesn’t even know if her parents are alive or if Helena is the Countess Charon now) with no more answers. Catherine’s temper grows closer and closer to splintering.

She employs the old methods taught to her as a child. Count to ten—twenty, if that’s what it takes. Take deep breaths. Don’t let her feelings overcome her. Don’t make a fuss, don’t get mud on her new shoes, don’t say what doesn’t need to be said.

But Catherine has never been good at playing at being a well-behaved noblewoman expected not to have opinions, and so when the sun is at its peak, she decides she has enough.

“Look,” she snaps, boots slamming to a halt in the dirt, and up ahead, Shamir stops too. “You can keep all of the personal secrets you want. I’ve never asked for that sort of thing. But when it comes to the actual trip we’re going on here, I expect you to at least keep us in the loop a _little_. Like letting us know when and where we should be able to stop, or how we’ll be getting between two different countries without going through the mountains, which is a suicide mission in our current state.”

Shamir doesn’t look back. “It’s for your safety.”

Catherine scoffs. “Our safety, huh? Was it for _our safety_ when you dragged us out of a safehouse to be brought before Her Imperial Majesty, who was the one who might as well have forced us there in the first place? Was it—”

“Catherine,” says Shamir in that tone of hers, not elaborating.

“No! You don’t get to talk to me like we’re still partners.” Catherine momentarily lets Cyril fall behind so she can march up toward Shamir’s back, not letting her disappear from view. Not again. “You fucked that up. I know we had this whole moment last night, but I still don’t trust you, and unless you act like you even remotely trust me with such basic knowledge as _where we’re going_ , I’m going to make you do this the Goddess-damned hard way.”

“Do you want to talk about trust?” Shamir twists to fix Catherine with a cold look. Her volume doesn’t rise, but that’s almost more unsettling. “You’re not supposed to trust me anymore, Catherine. And I can’t trust you.”

Catherine spreads her arms in frustration. “It’s not about that! I just want to know what the hell is going on for once!”

“You’re the one who brought up trust.” Shamir’s lips twitch, like it’s a foreign concept to her or a poor taste in her mouth. “And you know enough.”

“For you, maybe, but I don’t feel like I ‘know enough.’ If you’re so certain that Hubert won’t slit our throats when we’re back in Enbarr, then maybe you could be less secretive about, again, _where the fuck we’re going_. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to tell anyone!” Catherine can’t help a semi-hysterical laugh.

Shamir’s expression shifts to something Catherine can’t quite pin down. “You—”

“Goddess, I don’t know why I try.” Catherine’s arms fall back to her sides. “You’ve always been like this. All secretive and fatalistic over things that don’t fucking matter.”

“And you’ve always had a habit for nosing into things that aren’t your concern,” returns Shamir, voice finally cracking, slight but there. Catherine tries not to feel proud. “The destination matters, not the journey.”

“Every word you say convinces me more and more that you’re leading us right into a trap. C’mon, if it really doesn’t matter, then why not share anything?”

“Dammit, Catherine, I—”

“You guys,” cuts in Cyril, and they both turn as if to snap, falling silent at his face, nothing short of panicked. In a lower voice, he adds, “Stop. There’s someone coming.”

And nowhere to hide or run to. Catherine goes rigid, gearing up for a hit, for enemies to pour from every direction. Any other time, she’d welcome the challenge, but now isn’t—to put it lightly—the best time. Cyril tucks himself up behind her. His wyvern draws nearer, too, wings beating against her sides even as four sets of talons dig into the ground.

“Well, well!” comes a voice from behind her, and Catherine spins to see three men emerging from the trees—bandits, no doubt about it. “What have we here? A fine wyvern, and—” the leader’s eyes skim over Catherine’s scabbards and damaged armor “—some fancy gear, too, it seems. This could all fetch a mighty high price, wouldn’t you say?”

_O_ _f all of the places to be ambushed…_

Catherine shakes her head, glancing around, looking for anywhere to go, anything to do, any cue from Shamir—

But she doesn’t find any cue, nor Shamir at all. She’s gone. Even her horse is nowhere to be seen.

It’s not surprising. What is surprising is that Catherine hadn’t noticed. Back when they’d become partners, it had taken her some time, but she’d gotten used to Shamir’s habit of disappearing and reappearing out of thin air enough to be able to somehow sense her movements. But now, it seems that time, distance, and waxing antipathy have robbed her of that uncanny ability.

Catherine’s shoulders tighten. She needn’t panic yet; Shamir could have gone for help or to find a better sniping point, since she works best from a distance (physical or emotional).

Or, says a voice at the back of Catherine’s mind, she could have just left. Maybe this is an Empire-arranged ambush. Why would she and Cyril have been meant to return to Enbarr? Shamir had told her outright that she could have been lying about Edelgard’s intentions. Catherine is a fool if she thinks one tense, faux-honest late-night chat will change a single damn thing between them.

She sucks in a sharp breath. Okay. So Shamir isn’t here and a confrontation is looking likelier by the second. It’s not time for thinking—it’s time for action and instinct.

Her fingers curl around the hilt of her silver sword. She positions herself so Cyril is behind her, out of reach of the approaching bandits. Three against one. She’s taken on far worse odds in the past—unless tougher reinforcements are called, which is improbable given the look and location of these guys, Catherine will be fine.

“Are you sure you want to fight me?” she asks, cracking her neck. “I used to be known as Thunderstrike Cassandra around these parts.”

Recognition doesn’t spark. Catherine’s frown deepens. Banditry is one thing—bandits on Charon territory not having heard of her is another. Just how young are these guys?

The de facto leader steps forward. Catherine sighs.

“All right, but you asked for it, buddy.” Lowering her voice, she says over her shoulder, as quietly and quickly as possible: “Get up into the air somehow. I’ll take care of this.”

Cyril grabs her elbow. “I’m not leaving you.”

Catherine’s teeth grind. If she turns her back, gives the bandits an opportunity to lunge at him—but she can’t argue anymore, not with all three bandits headed for her, so she only nods and barks out, “Stay put, then,” before she charges to meet them halfway.

It’s a fast, dirty fight. Catherine parries the blow of the leader’s axe, twisting to knock it straight out of its owner’s hands. While he’s still blinking, she stabs the flat end of her sword into his solar plexus. He gasps, and she slices into his side, leaving a cut deep enough to stain the dirt red as he stumbles back. The second bastard with an axe tries to come at her from the side, but Catherine hears his tromping footsteps and turns without hesitation. She slashes at his chest and bowls him over. Before the third can so much as let out a battle cry, she kicks out and knocks his legs out from under him—he drops to his knees with a swear.

Catherine is midway through a downswing, sword cocked right for his shoulder, when pain shoots up her arm. It’s not an unfamiliar sort of pain, but it’s far sharper than any she’s felt in some time. She gasps as her joints lock up. Her fingers fall away from her sword, and it clatters to the ground.

“Catherine!” comes Cyril’s voice, but it’s muddled beneath the blood rushing in Catherine’s ears.

She digs her nails into the pit of her elbow. Somewhere, she’s aware of the bandit before her getting to his feet and snatching up his sword, but so obscured is her vision by spots that she can’t fully process it. Thunder Catherine, the Knight of Seiros whom the emperor herself couldn’t kill—struck down now by a bandit. All because of that damn Imperial mage.

A bitter laugh sounds, hardly recognizable as Catherine’s own. If nothing else, it’ll deter the bandit for a half-second.

Her eyes squeeze shut. _I’m sorry, Cyril,_ she thinks, unable to fight against the strike that’s sure to come, the sword buried in her gut—

But the blow never comes. Instead, what comes is a sound of impact followed by a shuddering, wet hitch of breath, and then another—and then a familiar crash, the sound of a body hitting the dirt.

The wave of pain rolls past, though a dull sting remains in Catherine’s fingertips, ice traveling up and down her veins. She brings herself to open her eyes. Before her, the bandit has fallen, two arrows sticking out of his throat and blood dribbling down his chin.

Catherine’s head twists, looking over her shoulder at Cyril. But his hands are at his sides, no bow visible. Catherine squints in confusion—

—and another arrow arcs out and lands in the chest of the second collapsed bandits, and out from the trees gallops a familiar horse bearing an even more familiar figure on its back.

“Shamir?” manages Catherine.

Shamir doesn’t even glance her way, only glances over the first bandit—bleeding and groaning—before silencing him with another arrow, too. She steers her horse back onto the path. Her hands go slack on her bow, letting it rest at her waist.

“Where the hell were you?” demands Cyril, far more alert than Catherine feels now.

“I needed a better place to shoot from,” says Shamir, and watered-down vindication lights in Catherine’s chest. She spares Catherine a grimace as she dismounts. “Dark magic wounds, unless treated by light magic, tend to cause chronic pain in the affected area. You’ve likely been dealing with it for the past few months, but putting a significant amount of strain on the scars worsened matters.”

Catherine shakes out her wrist, dark veins prominent against her skin. “Great. Remind me if we ever come upon a friendly healer.”

Shamir doesn’t justify that with a response. Catherine is relieved enough anyway that she doesn’t push the issue, pain dissipating enough for her to wiggle her arm without seeing spots. She’s dealt with pain for most of her life, and even more as of late—she can handle this as long as she adjusts to it. Not that she expects her body to be kind to her and lay off on the near-fainting spells.

After a brief inspection of the bodies, Shamir makes to set off again without another word. She pauses with her hand on her horse’s neck and turns to face Cyril with a hard nod.

“Yes, I did,” is all she says, a grim, whispered confession like that of the night before.

Catherine doesn’t understand, but Cyril seems to. With a sharp intake of breath, he regards her for a moment before nodding right back, then dropping his gaze to the ground. Catherine’s eyes flit between them, but neither is forthcoming.

Shamir, cool and detached once more (Catherine doubts she’s broken a sweat), puts away her bow. “We should keep moving. If we pick up the pace, we’ll make it into the Leicester Alliance by nightfall. We’ll be taking a detour through the mountains at the edge of Charon territory,” she says with a glance at Catherine that belies an unspoken apology. The information isn’t much, and already Catherine wants to inquire after this detour on the land where she grew up, but it’s a start. Shamir turns. “Is that clear?”

Catherine can hardly leave it like that. For all of her grievances, aired and silent alike, Shamir had saved them. Sure, she’d abandoned them first, but in the end, she’d come back. That’s something Catherine had never expected her to do before.

“Shamir,” she calls. Shamir stops but doesn’t look back, though Cyril glances over out of the corners of his eyes. Catherine swallows down a swell of burning pride to say, “Thanks.”

“I’m doing my job.” Shamir’s tone is steady and calm. “But,” she adds a moment later, “you’re welcome.”

As they start walking again, tension and relief canceling each other out, the sun peeks through the clouds anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter dedicated to my recently departed dog betsie, who was the only one deserving of _my_ family's surname. i realize dedications serve very little purpose here, but... unrelated: i would love to delve into my hcs for catherine's family another time, but unfortunately this fic will not be my conduit for that aside from the scene here. someday!
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading! we'll be taking a week's break in between this chapter and the next one to allow more time for editing and spending some time on other projects, so _next time_ (5/20): a realization and a friendly face. as always, comments and kudos are super appreciated!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	5. black skies change into blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! welcome back! two weeks honestly felt longer than i was expecting. i have to admit my life is kind of a mess right now, but updates should be steady from here on out, and i might even be able to make it biweekly for chapters 10-15.
> 
> warnings for chapter five: off-screen violence and death, brief mentions of alcohol use.
> 
> title from "dear fellow traveler" by sea wolf. enjoy!

As they press on, bodies hidden and abandoned behind them, the air is less stifling but perhaps more shaken. Shamir’s lenience and the battle seem to have lightened things, but one show of an affordable amount of trust won’t change things.

Something in Shamir buzzes at the feeling of a battle won. She’s never cared much for fighting, really—it’s a means to an end and nothing she takes pleasure or anything to that extent out of—but she can’t deny the boost of adrenaline just knowing that she’s escaped death and saved others from it.

(Whether those others’ identities play any specific role in Shamir’s mood, she doesn’t waste her time considering.)

Behind Shamir, Catherine and Cyril speak in hushed tones. Shamir doesn’t bother eavesdropping—they’re speaking too quietly for even her to make anything out, and slowing down is far too obvious—but from the general gist of their tones, it seems that Catherine is trying to wheedle something out of Cyril. It isn’t difficult for Shamir to guess what it is.

Shamir’s thoughts had been occupied by Cyril’s question for far too long for her never to at least answer herself. The first part was easy—she’d never trusted Rhea. She had been Shamir’s employer, and trust isn’t a necessity there—phrasing it as such is a rather monochromatic look at morality, but Shamir has done bad things for bad people, and she doesn’t lose much sleep over it. Guilt is an easy emotion that has never plagued Shamir as she knows it has many of her now-former comrades. She does what she needs to survive, and if that means allying with people she doesn’t like or support, then that’s what it means.

But Catherine had been different—Catherine had been her partner. Shamir has only had two long-term partners in her life, and she’d pledged after losing the first to never hold another again. She hadn’t had any say in her and Catherine’s partnership, perhaps Rhea’s way of keeping a leash on them both. But they’d been partners nonetheless.

 _Partner_. The term itself carries more implications of attachment than Shamir had ever been comfortable with, even with her feelings for her first partner. But it also suggests trust, a deep bond none can break except those tied within.

And despite every difference between her and Catherine—their pasts, their values, their inevitable futures—and the rocky start to their relationship, Shamir had, in the end, trusted her. And she had been the one to shatter that trust by leaving.

She doesn’t regret it. She had more than paid her debts to Rhea, and Shamir’s personal beliefs had conflicted with Rhea’s enough that Edelgard’s war, out of all she’d seen in her life, was the first in which Shamir had fought with pride instead of obligation. Catherine and Cyril had been collateral damage, and for that, Shamir is sorry but not remorseful. She won’t take anything back.

Cyril deserved an answer, and Shamir had given him one: She did trust Catherine. Past tense, because the current context of their relationship does not allow for trust from either side.

Shamir feels questioning eyes on her back, but she doesn’t look behind her as they approach the end of Charon territory, on edge but without further incident.

The Oghma Mountains loom forth. Shamir pushes straight through, muscle memory guiding her forward. Between clusters of mountains, on the cusp of Charon’s border with the Leicester Alliance, is a steep but manageable path that curves between the mountains—the detour she’d promise. It leads back down in Daphnel territory.

Shamir checks her arrows again. She’d gone through Ailell on her way into Faerghus, so she doesn’t know what lies in wait now.

“Are you up for some hiking?”

“I thought we weren’t going across the mountains,” says Catherine, a note of bewilderment in her voice. “You mentioned a detour.”

“Correct. As you mentioned, the mountains are a suicide mission.” If Shamir’s tone grows more clipped at the reminder of their explosive argument, no one mentions it. “The pathway here is technically part of the Oghma Mountains, but the elevation is far lower and it drops off sooner. Most people who see it assume it leads farther up the mountains, so it’s rarely traveled.”

“So there shouldn’t be anyone else along the route,” says Cyril.

“No.” Shamir steers her horse to the side. “If there is, there are considerably few places to hide, so stay vigilant.”

Catherine sighs. “As long as my arm doesn’t give out again, I’ve got no problems with that.”

Shamir can make no promises about that arm, so she says nothing, only resuming her walk along the dirt road and waiting for the other two to follow suit. The path blends more and more into the grass and stone as they go on. Before long, they’re scaling a smaller platform than the surrounding mountains. Shamir lowers her head to keep the sun out of her eyes as she fights to hoist both herself and her horse along.

She’s been along the path before, but it has to have been years since her last trip—she’s had no reason to be in Faerghus for five years. It’s been long enough that she doesn’t remember the way by heart, and she has to pause every now and then to consult a compass or mentally log their progress.

The afternoon goes by in silence save for the distant sounds of birds of prey far above. They don’t encounter anyone else, and they’re shrouded enough by the surrounding peaks that no one should see them from below. Even so, Shamir keeps close to the sides of the path. The shelves of rock around, if scaled, would lead farther up into the mountains, but no one in their party is in any shape to be climbing.

Though she’s estimated that they can start traveling into the evenings soon, Shamir doesn’t push it, let alone in mostly uncharted territory. They’ve covered about half of the detour path by the time the sun sets. There isn’t anywhere perfect to set up camp, so Shamir settles them on the side of the road, huddled up below a shelf of rock that Cyril eyes warily.

They eat leftover food carried with them, easing some of their physical burdens. The emotional baggage, of course, remains heavy and unspoken.

Afterward, Shamir keeps watch. Most of her day has spent in silence, but there’s nothing like the genuine tranquility that comes from being the only one awake for hours on end, even under the pretense of keeping her eyes and ears open.

She scrawls out a quick message and tucks it away for the next time Hubert’s raven finds them. Her eyes turn to the sky. At a glance, there are more stars visible here in between the Kingdom and the Alliance than there are in most of Faerghus—but still not as many as in Dagda.

Shamir finds sleep still sitting up, head raised to count the constellations.

*

Not long after the professor’s return, Shamir and Petra had been sent out to take care of a skirmish. A skilled sniper and wyvern-riding assassin would make mincemeat of their enemies in no time flat, and so they had, working in tandem to ambush the enemy forces and fire from afar. The battle had been no more interesting to Shamir than her daily meals, and she hadn’t had to wonder when she had become so detached.

When the landscape had gone still, Shamir had gotten closer to ensure their success, lance in hand. Petra had dropped down beside her, and they’d checked the bodies. Nothing amiss on Shamir’s end. She’d been straightening up when Petra had called, “All clear.”

Shamir had nodded and made to return her lance to its sheath.

“Shamir,” Petra had added, and Shamir had glanced over. She had found Petra hunched and frowning, hands clasped together at her waist like there was something cupped between them. Shamir had waited a moment for her to speak again, and after a pause, she had: “Are you ever thinking about those you have been—have killed?”

It hadn’t been a question Shamir hadn’t heard before, but hearing it from Petra had surprised her. She had already told Petra that she never let emotions interfere. Petra herself hadn’t seemed to have many worries to that extent—she’d worn her passion and pride with the degree of stoicism expected of her, and as she’d stood then, she looked every bit the warrior queen she would someday become. Her determination was obvious to all, especially those to whom she had insisted that Brigid’s independence would be ensured well before she’d pledge an ounce of fealty to the Empire.

But Shamir had supposed that everyone wore a mask of some kind nowadays. Petra’s strength had been as worthy of admiration as it had been pitiful. She had no longer been a prisoner of the Empire, but its scars had no doubt remained.

Shamir had given Petra the honest answer she’d deserved: “No.”

Petra had waited, but Shamir hadn’t yet elaborated. “Never?” she’d prompted.

“No,” Shamir had said again. “My job, simply put, is to kill. I don’t think it’s weak to worry about things like that—” her thoughts had flickered to Alois, strong and unyielding not in spite of but due to his compassion “—but it’s not in my nature to regret the lives I’ve taken.”

“I see.” Petra had nodded, thought for another moment, and added, “You are like Edelgard and Hubert, then.”

“Not quite. I am fighting for a cause now—theirs, even—but—” Shamir had shrugged. “I don’t hold the same passion that drives their actions. I intend to see this war through, but without a contract, I can’t say I would feel the same way. It’s all business to me. Unlike Edelgard—” she’d remembered the fury in Edelgard’s face after proclaiming war against the Church; the desire of the Flame Emperor to, as she’d put it in a warped voice, reforge the world “—I have no personal stakes here.”

Hands still twisting, Petra had watched her with a shrewdness she’d always held, sharpened under fire. “Is that what it means,” she’d said, careful, “to be a mercenary?”

“To me, yes. I’m not bound by borders or past alliances.” Shamir had weighed her lance, so light in comparison to everything else she’d carried with her. “But others might disagree.”

“Leonie and the professor were mercenaries too.” The word _mercenaries_ had come out odd in Petra’s accent, like she hadn’t come across it in her studies of Fódlan; not too odd, given there were a number of analogous terms in Dagdan, none quite fulfilling the connotations of _mercenary_. “They are not believing the same things, then?”

“I doubt it. I couldn’t even believe Byleth was one when we first met, they were so different from all of the mercs I’ve known.”

Petra had nodded, though some disturbance remained in her face. “I believe I have more understanding. Thank you.”

“For what?” Shamir had hesitated to sheath her lance. “I’m only sharing my experiences.”

“Precisely,” Petra had said. “If I am going to be the queen of Brigid someday, then I should be listening to many different people’s—perspectives?” Her voice had wavered, but she’d glanced at Shamir, who’d nodded. Emboldened, Petra had continued: “This was a thought I was having before, because there are many things I still do not yet have understanding of in Fódlan, but I have been inspired to follow up on it.”

“I see.” Petra was quite smart, Shamir had known, so she’d doubted she had any questions of a more technical nature, but she’d offered, “I’d be glad to explain anything else you’re curious about.”

“That was being all for now. I am just wanting to hear more voices—it will help me become a better leader and person.”

Despite herself, Shamir had smiled—the world, she’d thought privately, needed more people like Petra, not perfect but willing to devote themselves to self-betterment. “All right. What brought that particular question on?”

After a momentary pause, Petra had opened her palms to reveal a small locket on a silver chain cradled between her hands. Shamir hadn’t recognized it, so she’d surmised it had belonged to one of the soldiers lying dead around them. Petra had cracked it open to reveal a tiny portrait within. On the opposite side had been several lines of engraved text in a looping, delicate script that had reminded Shamir of the covers of the monastery library’s rare unconfiscated romantic texts.

“This was on that man’s neck,” Petra had said, gesturing nervously at the bloodied soldier beneath her. “I was thinking—he is fighting to protect his family. What is making him any different from us?”

Shamir had grimaced, and Petra had looked away. “In all honesty, nothing but his ideology.” Shamir’s voice had been neutral; her eyes had stuck to the locket. “He could have even been a mercenary.”

“He could be from another nation,” Petra had added. “He could be—he could not have known of the purpose of this war.”

“Indeed.” With a sigh, Shamir had looked down. “I know this won’t help, but it really isn’t useful to think about that. It’s all right if you do, and I respect your ability to be able to, but it may only slow you down.” She’d hesitated, noting that her words weren’t very constructive, and added, “I will tell you what I told Alois: It’s okay to hold onto the ghosts of your past, but don’t let them hold onto you. Just remember what you’re fighting for. Freedom from the Church, from oppression—a brighter, better future for yourself and Brigid and Fódlan.”

Petra’s eyes had lit with faint wonder. She’d looked back at the locket in her hands, then, with a wince, laid it back onto its deceased owner’s chest, murmuring what had to be a prayer in soft Brigid. The situation had been nothing but private, but the switch of languages had almost made it so. Shamir had closed her eyes and let it wash over her.

When Petra had finished, she’d stood once more. Despite the carnage, there had been a sense of calm. “He was fighting for his family,” Petra had said, quiet yet firm, “but so am I.”

Whether she’d been speaking of her only remaining blood family or the family she’d made in the Black Eagles or both, Shamir hadn’t asked. She’d only nodded and glanced around for any signs of another ambush before gathering herself.

“Let’s not linger,” she’d said, and Petra had been quick to agree.

*

Early in the morning, Shamir wakes, stirs Catherine and Cyril, and gets them going again. The way down is faster and less strenuous than the way up had been, as it always seems to go, and by around noon, they’ve reached solid ground in what must be the Leicester Alliance.

Shamir calls a momentary break—a rare allowance for her—there. She raises her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looks around. Judging from the sprawling landscape and the distance they’d gone, they must be in southern Daphnel territory. North of Charon, but far east enough that they haven’t wasted their time. From here, they’ll head further east; continuing alongside the mountains would only result in further detours near the Empire, and Shamir wants them close to a river whenever possible. Gloucester and Ordelia, too, should be friendlier than the more open territory in southwestern Leicester.

She doesn’t convey any of this yet, if only because Catherine and Cyril don’t ask. It’s a relieving surprise. Shamir expects they’ll bring it up before long, and she plans to maintain her accidental transparency, but for now, she’s happy to have the silence as they start walking again.

It only lasts several hours. As they edge toward central Leicester, Shamir picks up on something in the distance: Other voices, distant enough that she can’t discern anything specific, and the steady beating of feet and hooves against the dirt.

She stops. She might be on edge, but she’d rather be too cautious than not cautious enough. It isn’t paranoia if they’re really out to get you, and in Shamir’s world, they most often are.

“Hold on,” she murmurs over her shoulder.

She starts forward, using the trees—more numerous in Leicester than in Faerghus, though they’re of different and more varied species than the coniferous firs of the wintery north—as cover. Her eyes scan through the cracks in the leaves. She can’t hear so much as Catherine breathing behind her, so she hopes they’ve taken her warning. Shamir doesn’t stop to check as she presses on. Horse left to fall behind, her footsteps are careful, the tips of her toes gliding along the ground instead of her soles.

Before long, she spots a gathering in the distance. It doesn’t take long to piece together that they’re a group of mercenaries. They’re riding at a slow pace—understandable, given the height of the sun—but not stopping altogether.

Shamir’s eyes pan through the crowd to pick out the leader: A broad figure on horseback, far enough ahead that all Shamir can make out for certain is a shock of short red hair. Their clothing and bearing are… familiar. There is a sense of genuine camaraderie amongst their band of mercenaries, ragtag as the group looks at first glance.

Shamir squints. She could figure out some way to get past, to go around the unexpected group, but—

“Stay here,” she tells Catherine and Cyril. It hadn’t taken long to catch up with the mercenaries, so they’re not far behind her.

“What are you—” starts Cyril, low, but Shamir is already moving.

She approaches at a position that puts most of the mercenaries’ backs to her but their leader in profile. Casual, she unsheathes her lance and lets it rest at her side. It serves as a symbol of her intentions: Shamir is not a threat, but she can fight—and well, made obvious by the musculature of her shoulders and arms and the hard look in her eyes, a look familiar to any mercenary worth their gold—should things come to blows.

A mercenary on foot is the first to spot her. Eyes wide, they scurry up to the leader to say something, and just like that, something overtakes the entire group, all heads turning in Shamir’s direction. She stands alone against the trees, facing a crowd of more fighters than she can count in one glance. Mages, cavalry, footsoldiers—all seem to rank among the troop.

“I mean no harm,” calls Shamir. “I wish only to speak with your leader.”

“With me?” asks the leader, twisting, and at the sound of her voice, Shamir mentally congratulates her instincts. The mercenaries stand ready, whispers and tension rippling amongst them, but the leader beckons behind her for them to stop—across the distance, Shamir can’t parse her expression, but her shoulders are open with confusion. Recognition sparks after a tight stretch of silence. “Oh, no fucking way! Holy shit! _Shamir_?!”

Shamir sheathes her lance. “Leonie,” she greets, smiling despite herself, and Leonie’s shocked grin shines as she clambers off her horse and rushes over. Her mercenaries fall behind. “I didn’t know you were working around these parts.”

“Well, I pretty much work anywhere now.” Leonie plants her hands on her hips. It hasn’t been long since Shamir last saw her, but she’s already changed a considerable amount. She moves with more ease now, less burdened and weighed down in a metaphorical and literal sense—she’s trimmed her hair back down and shaved the sides, making it look like Jeralt’s used to. “Since I’m a mercenary and all. But I came back to lead Jeralt’s company, see?” She gestures behind her.

Shamir nods. It’s a diverse group that Leonie has garnered, and from the looks of them, most had been alive to serve alongside Jeralt, though others are young enough that they must be new recruits. “Impressive.”

“Thanks! I like to think so too.” When Leonie laughs, she bares her teeth, several chipped and another capped with bronze. She looks more like a pirate than a mercenary, but Shamir supposes she’s not one to judge. “Anyway, what the hell are you doing out here? I thought you’d be on your way to Dagda by now.”

Instead of a direct answer, Shamir glances over her shoulder. She hadn’t mentioned Dagda to Leonie (or anyone save Petra, Edelgard, Hubert, and Byleth), but it’s an assumption she suspects most had made. But that’s not important now, and so all Shamir calls over her shoulder is, “It’s all right. They’re trustworthy.”

 _Trustworthy_. A word Shamir has never put too much thought into before now, but she had trusted Leonie, at the very least, to have her back in battle. Trusting her with what might classify as a national secret—

Well, the damage is already done. Shamir shakes herself and turns back to Leonie and the bemused press of her scarred eyebrows. “I’m on a mission,” she says. “Further information than that is classified, but I’m escorting two— _unorthodox_ targets. Don’t react too much.”

“I mean, I can’t make any promises, but—” Shamir can tell from the widening of Leonie’s eyes when Catherine and Cyril step out behind her. “Oh. Huh.”

Murmurs spread along the mercenaries, some of whom must have worked alongside the Knights of Seiros at Garreg Mach. Shamir doesn’t listen too closely, but her eyes do flit about the crowd for any indication of hostility or outright malice. She can find nothing but plain suspicion, which she’s used to dealing with—it’s nothing to ignore, but it’s not an active threat, either, and it’s reasonable for the situation.

Regardless, her hand rests at the hilt of her lance. It’ll be easier to access than her bow should any danger arise, and Shamir shouldn’t strike the possibility altogether.

Leonie is still blinking, face blank, tugging at the cuffs on her ears—her version of a grounding pinch. “Catherine, Cyril,” is her flat greeting, though she nods, too, at the wyvern behind them. “I thought you guys died.”

Catherine coughs. “We got better.”

“Mostly,” adds Cyril, pulling at his collar.

“So I see.” Leonie rubs her temples. As always, though, she recovers fast. “I imagine your top-secret mission is on Edelgard’s behalf then.”

No one seems to balk at Leonie’s casual address of the emperor, so Shamir assumes Leonie has already imprinted her personality upon them. With a hint of a smile, she says, “Like I said, the details are classified.”

Leonie shakes her head. “Shame, but I get it. Contracts and all.” She returns her hands to her hips, gloved fingers tapping against her sides. “Where are you headed? You don’t have to tell me the end destination or anything, just—”

“Farther east toward Gloucester, then eventually Ordelia.”

“Hey, we were on our way back toward Gloucester! Did you know that Lorenz is the new count now?” Shamir frowns—she’d expected that, but she hadn’t known he would take his father’s place so soon, especially with Gloucester’s long-standing fealty to the Empire. “He’s very busy as our diplomatic ambassador to Almyra,” adds Leonie, starting to grin, “but we’re on a mission for him right now. Or, well, we just finished up a mission.”

“I see,” says Shamir, not bothering to press on the details. Leonie will tell her of their glory over a pint, which no one has time for right now, or not at all. “So we’re all headed in the same direction?”

“Seems that way.” Leonie throws a haphazard glance over her shoulder. “What do you say we travel together for now? We’ve got plenty of room, and if you’re worried about those two and your mission, my mercs are great with secrets.”

Shamir doesn’t doubt that, and it’s a tempting enough proposal, but she glances to Catherine and Cyril first. Catherine is looking away, seemingly startled by the whole circumstances, but she offers a cautious, “Uh, I’m fine with that.” On the other hand, Cyril tugs at his wyvern’s reins and stares at the ground.

Leonie’s attention returns to him. “We can slow down a bit,” she offers at once. “Or it can fly alongside us?”

“She—can’t exactly fly right now.”

“Slowing down it is,” decides Leonie. “So long as you’re willing to travel with us, anyway.”

Cyril looks not at her nor Catherine but Shamir. “Is it safe?” he asks her in a low tone, and Shamir figures he’s not referring exclusively to outside dangers. She nods, and his face twists. He doesn’t trust her, after all, but her reassurance seems satisfactory, as he sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

Leonie claps Shamir on the shoulder, then turns to her mercenaries. Adopting a faint growl that seems subconscious, she calls in a voice so loud it echoes off the trees: “Everyone cool with that?”

An immediate chorus of “Yes, Captain” rises up. Leonie basks in it, chin high and shoulders aloft.

Shamir leans back with a raised eyebrow, thinking of the same person who couldn’t even look at a sketch of a spider without sweating. Then again, she’d still probably grimace and yelp if Shamir broached the topic. Something else to bring up over drinks in the far-off future.

One mercenary drags over a horse that looks like it was once meant to bear luggage and hastily outfitted for two human riders. They offer to take Catherine and Cyril’s things too, but they have nothing that isn’t easier to keep on their persons.

“We have a cart you can ride in if that would be more comfortable,” adds Leonie, but Catherine is already swinging onto the horse like she’s been doing so for weeks on end, which she might have at one point (albeit years back). She pulls Cyril—much greener, though not clueless given his wyvern—up behind her. Another mercenary adjusts the reins of Cyril’s wyvern and has her walk at her own pace alongside Catherine and Cyril’s horse.

Shamir follows suit by getting back on her steed. “Quite efficient,” she murmurs.

Leonie hears it anyway. “We do our best.” She leaps back onto her own horse, smoothing a hand down its tangled mane, and claps her ankles against its sides. “Jeralt Company, roll out!”

The sound of boots and hooves fills the air, and Shamir winces even as she guides her horse into the chaotic crowd.

*

Traveling with Leonie and her company isn’t much different from traveling on their own. It’s as efficient and goes at a similar pace, if expedited by the horses, but is louder and livelier. It’s annoying but beneficial in the long run—like this, they can hide in plain sight. Not Shamir’s go-to, but it’ll work well enough on their way through Daphnel and Gloucester.

Catherine and Cyril fall behind, but the mercenaries around them do too. The pace Leonie sets is slow enough that they can keep up and remain almost out of sight, or at least be unremarkable among the crowd. Leonie follows similar but more open paths than the ones Shamir would have taken alone.

Shamir allows herself to blend into the company for some time before—tired of the sound surrounding her—pushing ahead to draw even with Leonie. Leonie doesn’t separate herself much from the other mercenaries, humble despite her captainship, but she’s far enough ahead that Shamir is able to tune out most of the background noise if she rides alongside her. Leonie’s reaction is muted: She glances over, nods, and faces the road ahead again. She’s as attentive here as she is anywhere else.

Shamir settles into the rhythm, and it surprises her when, after a few minutes, Leonie tips closer to speak in a hushed tone. “So I know you can’t say anything too heavy about your mission, because it’s—”

“Classified,” fills in Shamir, overlapping Leonie’s concurrent mutter.

“—but I just wanted to say—wow, Catherine’s alive.” The admiration in Leonie’s voice is plain, and she flushes a little, tossing a wary look over her shoulder. “Sorry. I guess a part of me still looks up to her as this great knight who inspired me to really _fight_ , you know? Even though we ended up on opposite sides of a war in the end.”

“She’s quite determined,” agrees Shamir.

“No kidding. Man, I thought for sure after Fhirdiad—” Leonie shudders. “But she’s here, and she seems to be doing as well as she can. She—oh, and Cyril! I haven’t seen him up close in so long, it’s so weird to see him so grown up—anyway, they both looked about ready to fight me when she first saw me.”

Shamir doesn’t feel the need to point out that Catherine had hardly come away from that fight unscathed, nor that she feels just the same way about Cyril’s growth, so she just nods.

“Anyway, you probably don’t want to hear this, but—I’m kinda glad that they’re alive, you know?” For all of her scars and the breadth of her figure, Leonie’s face softens as she looks forward. “I’ve never been too keen on death, but it always felt… wrong to fight people we used to know—I definitely didn’t feel that way about everyone—” she spares a grimace that Shamir can assume is reserved for the likes of Rhea herself “—but Catherine and Cyril—I don’t know. It was just weird.”

“Don’t worry,” says Shamir, trying not to so much as think of her own feelings toward Catherine and Cyril’s survival. “I’m not Hubert.”

That gets a laugh out of Leonie. “True. That guy—” Leonie shakes her head. “I still don’t understand him. We’re the same age, but we’re total opposites.” Her jaw tightens, and Shamir can’t disagree—a high-ranking noble mage and a common-born, impoverished mercenary would only naturally become allies in wartime. “You seem to understand him pretty well, though, right?”

“As much as I understand anyone.” It’s not a lie. For all that Shamir and Hubert may have in common, there are a great many things they don’t share.

Leonie hums, attention fixed ahead. “The mission was from Edelgard, but he was probably the one who actually gave it to you, right?”

“Classified.”

“C’mon, you can’t even tell me that much?” Leonie scowls, but it doesn’t seem to be out of genuine irritation.

Shamir shrugs to the best of her ability. “I have a contract,” she says, which isn’t true anymore but may as well be, for all of the secrecy Hubert ensures.

For a beat, Leonie looks like she’s going to push for information, but she just sighs. “Oh well. It’s probably not as interesting as what I’ve been doing anyway. All that bureaucratic bullshit wears me out.”

“Which is why you came back to this.”

“Exactly! I understand that changes within the system are just as important, but I don’t really have the patience for it,” says Leonie, sheepishly grinning. “This is much more my pace. I’m no Captain Jeralt, but I’m starting to get the hang of this thing, I think. Maybe someday I’ll earn my place as the second Blade Breaker.” Her grin shifts to something more carefree, brimming with pride. After a moment, her expression grows more serious. “Just so you know, you could have a place here too.”

“In the—” Shamir thinks back to what Leonie had called it, tamping down on her surprise “—Jeralt Company?”

“Yeah—where else?” Leonie doesn’t wait for a response to the flippant comment. “You were another mentor to me, especially during the war, and it looks like you’re pretty occupied with other things right now—” she doesn’t outright glance back, but the intent is clear “—but we’d be lucky to have you.”

Shamir blinks. “I don’t work with companies.”

“Well, things have changed, haven’t they? I mean, you’re taking on missions for the Empire now. And we were all in the Black Eagle Strike Force together.” When Shamir hesitates, expression slack, Leonie coughs and continues, “Just think about it, all right? It’s not like I need any sort of answer right now.”

“I’ll—” Shamir looks down. “I’ll consider it,” she decides, not adding that she would mostly consider _not_ considering it. Working alone is more than a simple shtick for her—it’s a survival tactic. Working with even a single partner—

To say the least, it had gotten messy both times, so she can only imagine how being part of a proper company would go. The Black Eagle Strike Force had been a cohesive group, sure, but it had been a group of people united by their leaders’ goals, not a postbellum band of sellswords only bound by the gold in their pockets and whatever loyalty they hold toward the strangers around them.

“Great! Well, if you ever want to find us in the future, just track down our latest employer. Between you and Hubert, I’m sure you have ways of doing that.”

Shamir is certain of that too, though her faith (if it could be called that) hinges more on Hubert than herself. She lets the thread of conversation drop and scans ahead, registering the once-blinding sun dipping against the blue sky, the slight chill in the air. She’s more comfortable pushing on with Leonie’s company, but—

“Where are you planning on stopping?” she asks, all business again.

“Oh—usually we ride well into the evening, but we’ll probably need to set up sooner to take care of you guys. There aren’t many towns out here, so we’ll probably just have to set up some tents. I think we can go—” Leonie thinks “—another hour at this rate. How does that sound?”

It sounds decent enough to Shamir, but she and her horse aren’t the ones she’s concerned (too strong of a word, she knows) about. “Hold on,” she tells Leonie, who waves her off.

Shamir allows herself to drift back, drifting alongside the other riders, far enough to cut in beside Catherine and Cyril. Even at a below-average size, the wyvern manages to match the horse’s speed. Cyril is half-asleep and clinging to Catherine’s waist, head lowered to her shoulder while she glances between him and the mercenaries around her with faint amusement. The others spread further apart when they notice Shamir’s presence.

Catherine looks up with faint alarm, and Shamir wastes no time in telling her, “Leonie suggested we stop in around an hour. Can you go that long?”

“Uh, sure.” The wind whips Catherine’s unkempt hair into her face, but she doesn’t seem bothered. “Cyril is already about out, but as long as I’m riding, we should be good to go for a while longer.”

“ _Are_ you good to go?” Shamir can’t help asking.

Catherine shoots her a withering look. If it hadn’t already been ineffective, the awkward motion continued by her horse would have made it so. “I’m fucking great.”

Shamir doesn’t respond save for a nod—no reason to push it—before galloping up toward Leonie again. “An hour will be fine.”

“Good,” says Leonie, though she doesn’t bother relaying this information to her troop—they must have some sort of routine worked out already. “Anyway, how have you been?”

“Classified,” Shamir says again. Though she isn’t very tired, she is weary enough for the question to grate on her.

Leonie rolls her eyes but allows her to remain silent for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! _next time_ : meditation and advice. as always, comments and kudos are super appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	6. lights inside their eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter six: mentions of violence/hunting, off-screen manipulation and exploitation (including of a child).
> 
> chapter title from "dead hearts" by stars. enjoy!

Within a day of traveling alongside Leonie’s company, Shamir has adjusted as much as she can. She’s flexible in most areas, and it doesn’t take much doing to apply her pre-established routine to a new situation, especially given Leonie’s is close to hers to begin with.

They travel throughout the day, albeit with more breaks and more talking in between bouts of riding. Tents are set up at night. There are no extras—Leonie offers up some, but Shamir refuses, not wanting to get too used to sleeping with a roof over their heads yet. Thus, she, Catherine, and Cyril spend the first night on the outskirts of the Jeralt Company’s temporary encampment. Shamir doesn’t bother to take watch for long; having extra sentinels is one advantage of traveling in such numbers.

The next day feels somehow longer. Leonie rises at dawn, as does her company—and as does Shamir, and by extension, Catherine and Cyril. It takes some time to pack up camp, but they’re off well before noon, and by the day’s end they haven’t quite yet met Gloucester’s foothills, so they set up camp again.

As she’s assisting some of the other mercs with wrangling their horses, as silent as ever despite their clear looks of interest in the mysterious woman who materialized out of the trees with two presumed-dead Church associates in tow, Shamir spots a familiar messenger raven headed toward them. She hands off her latest updates for Hubert but, unsurprisingly, receives nothing in return.

Before Shamir can set up her bedroll, Leonie approaches. “Care to come hunting with me and some of the other mercs?” she asks, jerking a thumb over her shoulder to indicate a pair of women likely around Alois’s age, hardened and well-built, engaged in a conversation of their own. One smiles upon meeting Shamir’s eyes; the other only nods with respect. Honor among thieves, so to speak. “The woods around here don’t have the best game around, but I still thought it’d be nice to stock up a little.”

Shamir presses her tongue to her cheek. She’s not paid much attention to the mercenaries’ supplies, but she’s sure a bit of extra meat for herself and the others would be appreciated. The chance of coming upon any decent game is slim, but no risk, no reward.

“Fine,” she agrees. “You’ll keep Catherine and Cyril under an informal watch back at the camp, right?”

Leonie seems startled by the quick agreement, but she hurries to nod. “Sure thing! I’ll just ask some of my guys to keep an eye out.”

She does, and satisfied enough, Shamir sets off alongside her and the other two mercenaries. They split into pairs to cover more ground. Shamir lets the practiced hunter lead, utilizing her own steady breathing and walking techniques to blend into the darkness of the night while following Leonie’s halting steps.

A couple of times, Leonie stops and opens her mouth to speak before stopping, passing her distraction off as a bird in the distance. It takes about forty minutes—nothing caught but a hare—for her to finally speak, and even then it’s with heavy wincing, voice low with the justification of not scaring away the prey that isn’t anywhere in the vicinity.

“So, about Catherine—”

Shamir only blinks, then says, placid, “What about her?”

“ _What about—_ c’mon, Shamir. Are you really going to say things are cool with you two now?”

Shamir could echo the vague use of _cool_ , but since Leonie is already facing her, all she does is arch an eyebrow.

Leonie looks away, scratching at the shaved portions of her hair. Up close, it’s clear how much her new style resembles the late Jeralt’s, though Shamir suspects it’s as much in remembrance of him as it is for Leonie’s freedom. “You know what I mean. Is traveling together going all right?”

“As all right as it could.” Shamir slings her bow onto her back and folds her arms. Her gaze diverts to the horizon line, flat but with the distant swell of the Oghma Mountains visible; opposite them, at Shamir’s back, are undoubtedly the mountains between the Alliance and Almyra. “We can’t trust each other, but we have to cooperate. We know that.”

“Do you?” asks Leonie, neutral.

“Of course. I’ve made similar arrangements in the past.”

“Never with Catherine or Cyril, though, right?”

Those had been different, Shamir doesn’t say. She doesn’t know when she’d begun to trust Catherine—she’d never thought about it much in years past, only how they were partners, making trust (subconscious or no) necessary, and it doesn’t do to dwell on the past now, despite its proclivity for bursting into the present. And Cyril, being a child in a situation even less fair than hers, had never been _un_ deserving of trust. He had needed it from someone, at least.

“Not quite,” Shamir says instead. “But I have worked with plenty of people who should have been—or who _have_ been—my enemies. The Empire laid waste to my home country, and I helped its latest emperor win the war.” Her voice is plain, simple, without a hint of irritation. “It’s business. You’re a mercenary—you should know.”

“I don’t think _business_ and _personal_ need to be separate.” Leonie rests her knuckles against her jaw. “I mean, you still have some resentment for the Empire, right? I can’t imagine not hating it a little.”

“I suppose,” allows Shamir, thinking not of herself but Petra, held hostage in all but name until she fought for her and her people’s freedom before her allegiance. “But countries mean less than people, especially these days.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Leonie twists an old wooden charm hanging from her neck. “The Leicester nobles fucked small villages like mine totally over, but most of the people in power now—they’re like Marianne and Lorenz. They listen. And as long as they listen, I don’t doubt that they’ll help people like me out.”

Shamir gives a short nod. Politics mean little to her, but she can’t deny that part of her—a destitute child seeing death and despair in every direction—is moved by the changes Fódlan will undergo and is already undergoing.

Leonie coughs. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with Catherine,” she cuts back in. “Are you really okay with transporting her all the way across the continent?” Shamir had never specified that much, but it seems if Leonie is given an inch, she’ll take a mile. “Better yet, is _she_? And what about Cyril? I overheard him in Fhirdiad. He was pretty—” She grimaces, more pitying than anything.

Pity isn’t something Shamir had thought herself capable of, but when it comes to Cyril, she can’t help but agree. “We have to be. If anyone had to do this,” says Shamir, because she doesn’t doubt that Hubert would have found someone else had she refused, “I’m fine with it being me.”

“Really? Even with, you know—” Leonie’s arms spread “—everything?”

“I don’t let the past impede me. Emotions have no place in my field of work.” Leonie flinches, and Shamir sighs under her breath. “You don’t need to hold the same perspective. We may both be mercs, but we carry out very different types of work for very different reasons—” and people, she doesn’t add “—in very different ways.”

“That’s true.” Leonie’s shoulders slacken. “But—still. Be careful, all right?” Years-old grief flashes across her face. “Revenge is best served cold, so I hear. Something could happen at any time.”

“I’m always careful,” says Shamir, which is mostly true.

“And look out for Catherine and Cyril. I know you can’t trust each other,” says Leonie when Shamir’s mouth twitches downward, “but there’s probably some reason they’re alive, and even though they were loyal to Rhea until the end, you trusted them at one point. I mean, _you_ trusted them.” The significance of this is not lost on Shamir. “So they’re probably good people at heart, right? They just—trusted someone who wasn’t so much so.”

Shamir wishes she had any sort of answer. But she doesn’t, so all she does is pick up her bow again and start forward once more.

They don’t manage to collect any more meat before Leonie suggests they return to camp, and the air is heavy with more than the sense of defeat.

*

The following day goes much the same, minus the hunting because they reach Gloucester well before sunset. They part ways on the path leading up to the estate proper, a knight already riding to meet the Jeralt Company—Leonie sees Shamir, Catherine, and Cyril off with her bow raised in a salute.

“It was nice to run into you guys,” she says, “even if it wasn’t under—” her eyes skate over Catherine and Cyril “—the best circumstances. Pass my regards onto the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force if you come upon them, all right? And if you see Bernadetta in the next couple of weeks, tell her that I’m doing my best to write her back.” Shamir nods, and Leonie adds, “Oh, and we’ll tell Lorenz that you’ve been doing well too.”

Another nod. “Make sure not to mention—”

“—Catherine and Cyril, I know. Relax, I’ve got this.” Leonie grins in a way that gives Shamir no confidence as to how much she _has this_. “See you around! You can keep the horse, by the way—we’ll make do.”

Catherine does a double take. “Are you sure?”

“Sure thing. You clearly need it more than we do,” says Leonie, eyeing Cyril’s wyvern. “And we’re always happy to help out friends old and new—right, gang?”

“Yes, Captain,” chant the mercenaries in unison. Shamir is, she has to admit, impressed.

Though she looks, if anything, more startled by being referred to as a friend, Catherine takes it, helping Cyril situate himself on the horse’s back. She keeps her hand planted on its side while Leonie turns toward the approaching Gloucester knight. As he grows closer, it seems more and more likely that it’s Lorenz himself.

Shamir wastes no time in climbing aboard her horse. “We should go while we still can,” she says in an undertone. On foot is the best assurance of stealth, but if a quick escape is necessary, being able to carry on like this—with the wyvern running alongside—will be useful.

Leonie waves one last time. “Next time, let’s catch up over drinks! Let me know what you decide, too, Shamir!”

She doesn’t have to specify what Shamir’s decision is on. As tempted as she is to tell Leonie to expect the worst, as had become her go-to over the course of the war, Shamir only nods. She waits for Catherine to get back on her and Cyril’s horse and wave Cyril’s wyvern along before signaling her own horse to go. They shoot across the landscape, slowed by days of travel but still at a faster pace than they could reach on foot.

Over the wind and adrenaline, they don’t bother with conversation. Shamir veers from side to side, triple-checking a compass to ensure they’re headed in the right direction, and slows their pace within a couple of miles.

A trip from the edge of Gloucester to Ordelia is a fairly long trip—almost from one end of the nation to another—but Shamir’s estimates of how long it’ll take have lowered with the acquisition of another horse, though it also means they’ll have to be more careful. Once they pass the Great Bridge of Myrddin into the Empire, they’re all but home free, even with the additional distance to Enbarr. All Shamir has to do is keep them from dying until then.

Easy.

Given what Shamir has known people to be capable of—these two people in particular—it’s not untenable, though. Plans roll through her head. It’s good to be prepared in advance, but none of them seem altogether useful at the moment, so she fixes her gaze on the horizon for now.

In the early evening, they break to collect some more water from the river and let their mounts rest. The open plains of the Alliance are too, well, open for Shamir to consider stopping for the night yet, but at least they’re traveling alongside a body of water. She can see trees in the distance; a shaded area, imperfect but suitable. One final push toward that copse and they’re in a place to set up camp.

Shamir settles into her night watch a hair earlier than usual, but Catherine and Cyril don’t react aside from an exchange of looks. She turns her back on the camp and takes the opportunity to meditate. Traditional poses have never much appealed to her, but she settles into one anyway, folding her legs and resting her hands on her knees, taking in deep breath after deep breath as she attempts to rid her mind of unnecessary thoughts. Meaning most of them.

Rustling noises echo behind her. Shamir dismisses them as bedrolls or the wind stirring the leaves of the trees. She inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth, counting out the seconds.

Steps—too heavy to be Cyril’s, not heavy enough to be the wyvern’s—follow. Shamir’s next breath is sharper and quicker, though not enough so that it would be noticeable to anyone but her.

The grass shifts beside her. Shamir wishes she could blame it on the wind, but there’s an indisputable shift of weight in the ground beside her, a slumped body at her side, a broad shoulder knocking into hers for an instant before the figure settles farther away. Shamir’s eye twitches as she forces her breathing to stay rhythmic and steady. Both eyelids stay firmly shut, refusing to engage.

She doesn’t quite have the upper hand, though. “Hey,” comes Catherine’s voice, low. “You’re meditating, right?”

Shamir nods without opening her eyes. Still, she can tell from the lack of further noise that Catherine hasn’t moved. Her mouth twists into a scowl.

“Can I join you?” asks Catherine, and that startles Shamir out of her trance.

“You _can’t_ meditate,” she says—memories of Catherine trying and failing, fidgeting so much that Shamir had to move elsewhere to complete her meditation, come to mind. Catherine doesn’t make to deny it, but she doesn’t leave either. With a sigh, Shamir opens her eyes to see Catherine sitting beside her with her hands resting on her hips. She looks… uncomfortable, but stubborn determination flickers in her eyes. “Fine. As long as you actually meditate.”

“Right, right. I just breathe and clear my mind, right?”

“That is the basic gist of it.”

“Okay, I get it.”

Shamir faces forward again and screws her eyes shut. Why hadn’t she chosen to do something more productive than this? Go hunting, write a response to Petra’s letter, write another update for Hubert, take up a real patrol around the temporary camp’s borders—

She dismisses the concerns with a deep breath. Catherine mimics her, albeit without understanding what Shamir is really doing. Meditation is often a test of patience, but it’s not supposed to be like this. Shamir smooths out the irritation in her brow to continue observing and dispersing the thoughts that filter through her mind, sand and silt through linked fingers.

Why is Catherine doing this, anyway? The tension has lessened since their encounter with the bandits, but it’s not like it’s all gone—years of it can’t dissipate in less than a week. And yet here Catherine is, acting like they’re still—

Shamir tenses. She relaxes the rigid line of her shoulders just in time for Catherine to hiss, “So we’re headed for Ordelia next, right?”

“I don’t think you understand the point of meditation,” Shamir tells her, eyes opening again.

Catherine rubs her neck but doesn’t bother kowtowing. “You said—well, implied—that you were going to be even marginally more transparent from now on. I’m holding you to it.”

“And you thought the best time to ask was when I was meditating?”

“Well,” says Catherine in a hedging voice that tells Shamir she won’t like the rest, “I didn’t think you being calm would hurt.”

“I’m calm because I get time to meditate during whatever free time I have, most of which is at night,” says Shamir, tone bordering on icy. She presses her curled fists into her knees. With a deep inhale, her eyes fall shut again. “I’ll update you on our plans in the morning. Ask me then.”

She still feels Catherine’s gaze upon her, but Shamir doesn’t bother opening even one eye. Then, slowly but surely, Catherine picks herself off the ground and trudges away.

A moment later, she stops. “You’ll have to teach me how to meditate properly sometime,” she says before continuing on her way.

Shamir is not someone who rolls her eyes, but if she were, she would now, even with both eyes shut.

*

At night and between busy semesters of the Officers Academy, the training grounds were often empty. Quiet had been a rarity around Garreg Mach, and on her own, Shamir had taken any and all opportunities granted to her—she was _always_ training in some way or another, but directly honing her combat skills was a good use of her time.

Tonight, the training grounds were silent once more. Shamir had pulled Cyril aside from cleaning the dining hall to have a brief practice session. She and Catherine had been away on a mission for the previous few weeks, and he’d assured her he would train on his own time (what little of it he’d seemed to have). Deny it or not, she’d been looking forward to seeing what he’d learned.

Shamir hadn’t known, in all honesty, what the hell she was doing. Adjusting to a partner had been difficult enough—acting as a mentor to anyone, let alone a child, was far worse. She didn’t dislike children (far from it—seeing them about, even in the dingy marketplace, brought hopeful smiles to her face, if only because only children could find the strength to be so genuine and happy despite the world they lived in), but she had never been around them often enough to know how to act in their presence. She’d been an odd child herself, forced to grow up too fast.

That, though, hadn’t been far off from Cyril. In his youth, he’d already faced war and servitude. He was bright, Shamir had deemed upon their first meeting, and hard-working almost to a fault. He’d adored Rhea in spite of the doubtless leverage she held over him. Those starry eyes were, however, bound to burn out someday.

In her first months as his mentor, Shamir had tried to test how long it would take Cyril to give up, to admit defeat with the stick she’d given him in lieu of a proper bow. (Though she’d also doubted his stature, below average height and malnourished, would allow him to hold a bow.) But he’d persisted, showing a sense of determination that surprised even Shamir. So she had done her best to try in return.

Still, a feeling of discomfort had lingered as she’d watched him fire at the targets lined up across the training grounds. His movements had been slow, careful—too much so. So desperate to do things right that he almost hadn’t been able to do anything.

After landing a bullseye, Cyril had paused. “How am I doing so far?” he’d asked, lifting his head to glance expectantly toward Shamir.

“You’ve been doing a lot of the same type of shot,” Shamir had said, never one to pull punches even when addressing a thirteen-year-old. “What have I said about curved shots?”

Biting his lip, Cyril had looked down. “I know, I know—I need to do more of ‘em.”

“It’s not about needing to do more. You don’t need to meet any sort of quota. It’s about knowing when you have to make different types of shots based on the distance and angle.” As gently as possible, Shamir had beckoned Cyril aside; he’d gone without a fuss. Her bow, a flimsy wooden thing to keep from wearing down her steel weapons, had slipped off her back in a smooth, whip-quick movement. “In a real battle, even if you’re shooting from a distance,” she’d said, backing up, “you won’t get time to pause and think. You have to act on your feet.”

“On my feet?”

Shamir had nocked an arrow, slow so he could see how she moved. “You can’t waste a second. Arrows are replaceable—” she’d aimed, fired, and missed the bullseye of an untouched target by mere inches “—but time isn’t.”

“Um—” Cyril had made great strides in his understanding of Fódlan’s language, but he’d told Shamir he still had trouble following her sometimes.

“If you see an opportunity to take a shot, take it. Don’t think too hard. Archers must always be in control of the battlefield,” she’d reminded him. “Don’t be cautious, but don’t rush headlong into things either.”

Cyril had nodded, then slumped, dropping his glum gaze to the tiles of the floor. “I don’t think I’ll ever get this.”

“You haven’t given up yet, have you?” Shamir had paused to glance at him, seeing the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight tremble in his hands as he held his bow at his waist. She’d swiftly changed the topic: “When was the last time you slept?”

Cyril’s jaw had clenched. “I dunno, actually,” he’d said with a flippancy beyond his years. “I’ve been real busy lately, between archery and cleaning—you know how Lady Rhea likes things.”

Shamir hadn’t, really. “I’m sure she would like you to complete your duties on a good night’s rest.”

“How much sleep do _you_ get, Shamir?” Cyril had retorted.

She hadn’t known how to answer. She got less sleep than the average person—or at least far less than Catherine did, with her schedule of sleeping late and waking early as opposed to Catherine’s of sleeping early and waking early—but she was also an adult with her life more on track. It hadn’t been like Shamir knew all of the ins and outs of human development, but she had known that Cyril wouldn’t benefit from missing sleep.

“You shouldn’t be exactly like me,” she’d decided on saying, lowering her bow. “Why don’t we train again when you’ve gotten more sleep? You’ll work and understand better. I should be around the monastery for a couple of weeks.”

“But I want to get better _now_ ,” Cyril had said, voice cracking. Flush not visible in his cheeks but embarrassment clear, he’d jerked his head to the side to hide brimming tears.

Shamir had looked sidelong at him, and she’d seen him for what he really was: A scared, lonely, traumatized orphan clinging desperately to the one thing he could be in control of, the one person he could find some way to protect and prove himself to. He’d played the part of a tough, mature, well-adjusted adolescent, but in the end, he had been a child. A smart, determined, diligent child, yes, but a child—and one who, Shamir had thought, deserved far better than the situation he’d found himself in.

Long-forgotten sympathy had curled in Shamir’s chest. She’d slung her bow across her back and knelt before him.

“Growing and developing your skills takes work,” she’d said, tone no less neutral than ever. “You won’t get better overnight. I didn’t—it took me a year to figure out the right stance to take while holding a bow.” Embarrassed as the anecdote ought to have made her, she’d cleared her throat and moved on. “You are very bright, Cyril, and I admire how hard you work, but even you need a break every now and then. All right?”

He’d hiccuped. Shamir had worried that she’d overstepped in some way, still adjusting to the prospect of being a teacher figure in any capacity, but then he’d sniffed and said, more cheerful, “A year?”

Shamir had stood and huffed. “Dagda isn’t known for archery. And I didn’t have anyone to help me out like you do.”

“…Oh.” Cyril’s voice had been faint. “Yeah, I’ve got you, don’t I?” For a moment, he’d hesitated, then he’d said, “Thanks, Shamir. You’re—you’re right. We can train another time.”

He’d glanced back toward the arrow-pelted targets, spare arrows strewn across the ground, and sighed. He’d set his training bow back among the rest of the practice weapons, and Shamir had followed suit. She’d thought this was the point where most people would pat him on the shoulder in encouragement, but she had reasoned that she wasn’t most people.

Though she’d gotten the feeling her message hadn’t sunken all the way in, she hadn’t pushed it. “One last piece of advice: You miss all of the shots you don’t take. Remember that.”

“What does—” A yawn had interrupted him, and his hand had snapped up to cover his mouth. “What does that mean? Obviously if you don’t shoot, you’re gonna miss.”

“Sleep on it,” was all Shamir had said as she’d turned to go.

*

It takes three days, half of that time spent on horseback and the other half on foot, to creep along the river toward Ordelia. As they do, the mountains obscuring the Fódlan-Almyra border become more visible, even with how far west their route is.

More than once, Shamir glances back to see Cyril looking forward with trepidation. He always looks away within a few moments, occupying himself with a bird flying ahead or the path ahead, but he grows quieter in the already near-silent afternoons and evenings as they veer farther east. It can’t be easy for him to be this close to his home country, even with his mixed feelings on it.

With their proximity, Shamir can’t help but wonder how Claude—or rather, Khalid—is doing. She’d never interacted much with him as a student, but he’d always seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Writing now would be odd, but perhaps once she’s finished here—

Shamir shakes her head mid-step. She’s on a mission—as much trouble as she’s had holding to the principle, any concerns aside from her task will have to wait.

The silence persists. When they stop for the evening on the third day, they’re less than a day’s walk from the Ordelia estate. Shamir is almost tempted to push onward, but she doesn’t want to become indebted to Lysithea for imposing upon her estate this late at night—it would be past midnight by the time they arrived. So they settle on a foothill out of the way and go about their nightly routines.

Shamir isn’t surprised when Cyril joins her on watch. She _is_ somewhat surprised that his wyvern comes trudging after, bony form curled around him. Cyril’s only response to Shamir’s questioning look is, “It’s cold,” which she can’t disagree with. Her jacket does more than enough to protect her from the slight draft in the air.

Out of the corners of her eyes, Shamir sizes up the snoring wyvern. She’s in better shape than when Shamir had come upon the safehouse, though her healing has been slower than either Catherine or Cyril’s. Shamir doesn’t know enough about wyverns to know if that’s a difference in species or care.

“How is she?” she allows herself to ask.

Cyril startles. “She’s about healed, I think,” he says, patting the wyvern’s neck, voice somber but relieved. “But her wings might never be totally healed. I don’t know if she’ll be able to fly again.”

“I see.” Knowing Bernadetta, she would cry upon hearing that. Between that, Caspar’s exuberance, and Linhardt’s obsession with Crests and Relics (including Catherine’s), Shamir will hope they don’t come upon one another, even if it means delivering Leonie’s message. “Do vulneraries not work for animals?”

“I’ve never tried, but I didn’t have anyone to ask, and I didn’t wanna risk it and have her get sick too.” Cyril scratches behind his wyvern’s ears.

Shamir reserves the question to ask Petra or Khalid sometime. For now, all she does is nod and watch the sleeping wyvern instead of Cyril’s pained face.

“I’m sorry about what I asked last time,” says Cyril, a quiet non-sequitur—and in opposition to his proclamation after asking. “It just sorta slipped out, ‘cause I was thinking about it, but it was a little rude.”

“It’s all right,” says Shamir. “You took me by surprise. It was something I hadn’t consciously considered.”

“Really?” Cyril straightens up, hesitant but bright-eyed. “I thought about something you hadn’t?”

Shamir blinks. “You can look at it that way if you want,” she says, halting, because Cyril’s tone reminds her uncomfortably of the memories she has of helping him during their training sessions. “You got an answer out of me, at least.”

“Huh—yeah, I did.” Cyril looks like he wants to pry into that answer, but perhaps he sees something in Shamir’s face or can’t bring himself to extend the conversation, because he falls silent. His gaze flickers again to the east. “We’re, uh, pretty close to Almyra.”

Shamir doesn’t point out his lack of subtlety. “Yes.”

“You’ve been a lot of places, haven’t you? Have you ever been there?”

“I haven’t. I’d like to.”

In lieu of his prayer beads, Cyril fidgets with his wyvern’s head, stroking across her snout and scratching at her chin. “It’s not really that great,” he says. “I haven’t been there since I was a kid, though, so maybe things are—better now.”

Shamir hopes so. She doesn’t say so, since she can tell from his face that he feels the same way.

“For me, Almyra was—” Cyril shakes his head. “It was never my home, really, just the place I was born and the place I lived in for a while.” After another beat of silence, he says through his teeth, “I had a surname back in Almyra.”

The turn of the conversation feels more significant than Shamir would have guessed Cyril would be comfortable with. Funny, how a relative lack of tension—though that’s not to say that it’s absent, given Cyril’s jaw is tight and he can’t seem to sit still—is so much more disturbing than an abundance of it.

She says nothing, giving him the opportunity to elaborate—or not. Shamir is not an interrogator by nature; she likes knowing things, but only when that information is given willingly, and her brand of intimidation tends to make people fall silent rather than spill out their guts. She thinks information gained under force is useless, anyway. If someone already knows their torturer is willing to let them die, they won’t suffer the consequences for lying.

“My name is Cyril Nasr,” Cyril says at last—quiet, neutral, but with finality. “I don’t think Lady Rhea ever knew that. She never asked. She was just trying to give me a fresh start, I think, especially after I worked for House Goneril.”

Shamir says nothing but nods. Privately, she doubts Rhea’s intentions were so benevolent, but there is respect and admiration glimmering in Cyril’s eyes, and even Shamir won’t tear it from him. This isn’t something Shamir can teach him; it’s something he must learn on his own.

Cyril gives her an askance look. The bitterness in his eyes doesn’t take Shamir aback, but she recoils nonetheless.

“Do you still want to use that surname?”

“I think so,” says Cyril, chewing at the junction of his lips. “Nobody asked before, really, and I still feel weird about using Almyran terms and stuff, but—I think it would be kinda nice to have a last name like everybody else.”

Shamir adjusts her sitting position. “You don’t have to do something because everybody else is.”

“I know that,” says Cyril, petulance still in his voice no matter how it’s matured. “It’s just something I wanna do.”

“All right.”

“ _Cyril Nasr_ sounds kinda weird to me,” admits Cyril when she has nothing else to say. “If Lady Rhea had had a surname, I would have used hers—if she had let me, anyway. But that was something we had in common, not having it. It was kinda nice.”

Shamir doesn’t respond. A trick of the light makes the trees seem to swell and shift, and Shamir squints against it so she doesn’t see any nonexistent shadows lurking through the woods. She’s tempted to rub the weariness out of her eyes, but her fists stay planted on her knees.

“I don’t really remember my parents,” says Cyril, and by this point, Shamir gets the impression he’s speaking only to speak, no longer to speak to her. “All I’ve got from Almyra is my name, I guess. And this.” He extracts his prayer beads with the hand that isn’t smoothing beneath his wyvern’s eyes. All of a sudden, he tenses, as if realizing the absurdity of the situation. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you all of this.”

She doesn’t know why she’s listening, either. “I don’t mind.”

Cyril’s mouth twists. “But you don’t trust me.”

“No.” Shamir’s short reply is reflexive. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hear you out.”

“I don’t understand you at all,” says Cyril, sounding for an instant like the frustrated thirteen-year-old of seven years ago. “We’ve gotta keep traveling together for a while, so we keep being nice.” Shamir wouldn’t call their behavior _nice_ per se, but she doesn’t point that out; they’ve earned ire, by all means, even if she’s the recipient of it. “But technically you’re holding us prisoner, aren’t you?”

“No. You’re my targets, and I’m your escort to Enbarr. You’ll be free to go as soon as you talk to Edelgard.”

“I understand her even less.” Cyril grips his prayer beads in one hand and his wyvern’s cheek in the other, fingers digging into the beads and the scales. “I _hate_ her,” he says, then, tone distinctly harsh. “How can so many people like her and support her after what she did to Lady Rhea? She and the professor were so cruel even before they killed her, and—I just don’t _get_ it.”

“Maybe because you haven’t tried,” suggests Shamir.

Cyril’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Dark circles underline Cyril’s eyes, aged enough to no longer be brimming with stars, turned dim and angry with his idolization rather than bright and adoring. “You should try having a conversation with Edelgard, like the one you’re having with me right now. You don’t need to be civil—” whatever goddesses there were left knew that Edelgard could deal it out twofold “—but try to understand where she’s coming from. Nothing is all black or all white.”

“Is that a Dagdan saying?” asks Cyril, tentative, fading anger still pulsing in his expression.

“It’s an everywhere saying,” says Shamir. She rises, hesitant, and adds, “I think you can finish the watch on your own. I’ll wake if anything happens. But try to get some sleep.”

She stalks off toward her bedroll, leaving him to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! _next time_ : an explanation and a promise. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are, as always, very much appreciated!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	7. one day you will see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter seven: implications of violence and death, mentions of hunting, and discussions of experimentation/neglect/manipulation, including of children, as well as church-typical child servitude/eugenics (nothing in too explicit detail).
> 
> you might have noticed the chapter count going down one -- i decided to cut an epilogue that i may or may not end up finishing up after all. we'll find out, but this does put us at halfway through on paper. chapter title from "i went to hell last night" by mika. enjoy!

Catherine wakes early the next morning, meeting the not-yet-risen sun with crust gluing her eyelids shut. Dawn is still undergoing, and when Catherine’s brain adjusts enough to receive a full supply of air, it comes to her attention how _quiet_ everything is.

She sits up in her bedroll. Across their makeshift camp, Shamir is asleep in hers, hair covering her face and making it impossible to make any of her features out from where Catherine is sitting. Cautious, Catherine turns to check on Cyril. He’s snoring—he doesn’t so much as jump when she bumps his knuckles against his uninjured shoulder. Not even the birds are chirping yet.

For all intents and purposes, Catherine is alone. She stands against the sky, distant sun at her back, and looks around.

A thought occurs to her: She could just… leave. Take Cyril and run, now that they’ve got a strong enough horse to carry them both—maybe they’d run into a merchant caravan along the way, even. How could she _not_ think about it? She’s already running from her past in the metaphorical sense; it wouldn’t take much to flee this instant, even with what a light sleeper Shamir tends to be. Catherine paces as she considers it.

But the same reasons she’s been rattling off in her mind pop up again. They wouldn’t get very far; Shamir could and would do things the hard way if pressured; more than Catherine is at risk.

And besides, traveling with Shamir—isn’t so bad after all. It’s tense, sure, and with everything between them, she doubts that’ll ever go away, but since the encounter with the bandits, it’s been almost _nice_ , if not great due to the unwanted circumstances almost choking them—

Catherine stops her train of thought when Shamir stirs, closing her window of opportunity. It’s easy enough to blink, having just woken herself, and pass her pacing off as a morning exercise.

Her thought of escape—as much of a stretch as it had been to begin with—is put out of her mind altogether as they continue on their morning routine, as odd as referring to it as such. Not an hour later, Cyril wakes to feed his wyvern and join in the daily discussion of their plans.

Despite her droll tone, Shamir’s eyes are bright. “We’ll be in Ordelia territory today. Lysithea should already know of our arrival, so we’ll be traveling to the estate to stay overnight. They live near enough to the border that after leaving the estate proper, we’ll be able to make it across the Great Bridge of Myrddin in the next couple of days.”

“We’re staying with Lysithea?” asks Cyril.

Shamir starts to open her mouth, but Catherine interrupts before she can say anything: “The Great Bridge of Myrddin seems a little more public than most of where you’ve led us.”

Shamir’s voice doesn’t change, but she does raise an eyebrow. “Less so than the outskirts of Fhirdiad. No one is keen to visit the locations of significant battles, and I don’t see any way we can swim across the Adrestian border.”

“Well, sure, but—” Catherine realizes mid-sentence that she doesn’t have a coherent argument here. Scowling, she looks down.

With Catherine shut down, Shamir swivels her attention back to Cyril. “Yes,” is all she adds.

And, well, there isn’t much to say after that, so they set off with no further harm or accident. Ordelia territory is smaller and closer to the border than most of the land they’ve made their way across for the better part of the last couple of weeks, but it’s still well into the afternoon before Shamir mentions Lysithea’s proximity. Though this is in part due to a hiccup around noon, when Cyril cries, “Oh!” apropos of nothing.

Naturally, this is the sort of thing that brings Catherine to attention. She straightens, already half-reaching for her sword and looking around—they’re in an area about as open as it can be—for any sort of threat, but she sees nothing. Up ahead, Shamir has halted too, but she seems as confused as Catherine.

She turns with a frown back to Cyril, whose hand has shot up to point at a dark shape circling far above. Catherine shields her eyes from the sun to make it out as a bird. A pretty big bird, but nothing she’d scream at.

“That’s a hen harrier,” Cyril says, bright. At Catherine’s blank look, he adds, “It’s a bird of prey that hunts around here, but they live in Almyra too. They fly in big circles—see, like that.” He jabs his finger farther up to indicate the bird as it flies in huge arcs, each time seeming to swoop closer down toward them.

Shamir peers up. “Your eyesight is impressive,” she remarks.

“Agreed,” mutters Catherine. “I can barely see the horizon line less than a mile ahead.”

Cyril looks torn between preening and flinching. He settles for neither, only continuing to watch the bird—the harrier—as it circles around them. With its size, it can’t be ready to swoop down on them. Cyril’s wyvern gives a derisive snort regardless.

“What’s it looking for?” Catherine asks Cyril, who seems content to stand here watching a bird fly in circles all day.

He sways on his feet, distracted. “Some sort of prey? Mostly they feed on smaller birds and mammals, so there must be stuff around here besides what we eat. They’re usually closer to Almyra this time of year, though,” he adds with a frown. “I wonder what this guy is doing so far southwest.”

Catherine doesn’t answer the rhetorical question—it’s not like she knows anything about birds. Instead, she asks, “How’d you learn about this stuff?”

“I found a book about Fódlan birds in the library one time and got somebody to read it for me.” Cyril rubs his chin. Embarrassment flickers in his eyes, but he keeps talking anyway. “I used to see ‘em all the time when I was in Almyra and Goneril, and I knew they were hunters like me, so—” He shrugs. “I dunno. It wasn’t real important to my duties or anything, but it seemed interesting.”

“I guess so.” Catherine, who’s never taken an interest in this sort of thing in her life, is impressed.

“It’s useful to become more familiar with your surroundings,” adds Shamir. “Learning about the flora and fauna around you can mean the difference between life and death, so I’d say it is important.”

Catherine pauses, growing somewhat dizzy from watching the bird. She lowers her gaze and blinks at the ground—spots linger in her vision from the bright sky. “Life and death?”

“In the literal sense, being able to tell what mushrooms and small animals are poisonous and venomous can save you. As can knowing what preys on humans in certain areas.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” Come to think of it, Shamir had always paid an abnormal—undue, in Catherine’s opinion—amount of attention to the animals in the habitats they visited on missions, even when hunting wasn’t required. “Hey, what else do you know about this guy, Cyril?”

Just as Cyril starts to speak again, the bird dives, lunging for whatever prey it’s spotted, and shoots back up less than two minutes afterward with something smaller in its talons, too far away for Catherine to get a good look at what it is. The harrier disappears into the distance with its meal.

“It’s a good hunter,” is all Cyril can bring himself to say, grinning a little. He coughs. “Anyway, sorry. We can keep going now.”

Still, he’s cheerful for the rest of the afternoon.

*

When they reach the Ordelia estate, sunset bleeding in around the edges of the horizon, Lysithea is quick to meet them in person. She doesn’t smile at first glance, nor does she seem surprised when she sees Catherine and Cyril.

Catherine hadn’t seen her up close at Fhirdiad, so she’s startled by how much the little girl she’d once known has grown. She’s not much taller than she had been five years ago, but she’s taller nonetheless. Her face is sharper and maturity fills her eyes, more genuine than what she’d tried to put on at fifteen. She still seems far older than her twenty-year-old shell (twelve years younger than Catherine, she realizes with a start), stiffer and more experienced than her youthful experience would suggest, but she is frail, too, staying still once she reaches the end of the path. The signs of her Crests are as clear as they’d been when Catherine had first met her.

“Shamir,” Lysithea greets. Her eyes flicker again over Catherine and Cyril. She nods in their general direction, a grimace flashing across her face, and then returns the brunt of her attention to Shamir. In response to an unasked question, she says, “Ferdinand informed me that you would be arriving at some point.”

“He’s been here?” asks Shamir.

“Yes, frequently. As the new Duke Aegir, he has provided a considerable amount of assistance in the effort of repairing Ordelia and Hrym land.” Lysithea’s head is tilted high with pride. “My family greatly appreciates his help.”

“I’ll let him know when we stop in Aegir.” Just from looking at Shamir’s back, Catherine can see that she’s more relaxed around Lysithea, like she had around Flayn and a younger Cyril. She’d never thought of Shamir as motherly or anything, but she’d always been softer to those younger than her.

Lysithea huffs. “My parents and their respective siblings have already made it quite clear, but I’m sure the praise would not go unappreciated.”

Shamir gives a brief nod. “How is Ordelia faring?”

For an instant, Lysithea hesitates, glancing again at Catherine and Cyril, but she lowers her hackles soon enough. “Better, with Edelgard and Ferdinand’s aid. But—please, we can talk about this another time.” She folds her arms. Gloves paler than her skin—almost translucent under the light of the sun—stretch from her fingertips all the way up her arms, disappearing into the sleeves of her coat. “I already had to fight tooth and nail to travel this far, so I can’t imagine how quickly my retainers will rush to defend me from some nonexistent threat should I take any longer.”

Though she doesn’t respond to that, Shamir nods again.

“Uh, we’ll be staying here tonight, right?” pipes up Cyril, and Lysithea’s cold stare softens a bit when it passes over him.

“If you all find that agreeable. The Ordelia estate is rather large, as you can see—” she gestures to the Gothic-style building looming behind her, about the same height as the cathedral at Garreg Mach but far wider “—and we have an abundance of empty quarters.”

“Separate beds in separate rooms,” notes Shamir with a pointed glance over her shoulder. Catherine gets the impression it’s a dig, but she doesn’t know what about.

Her attention turns back to the building. There’s something almost daunting about having such a pristine roof to sleep under, after all of Catherine’s time outside and in deplorable indoor conditions. But it only takes one glance at Cyril to see his exhaustion, bags hanging under his relief-stricken eyes. Shamir isn’t looking much better off, though she carries her discomfort with such stoicism that it’s more difficult to tell—all Catherine has to go off of is the slight dishevelment of her hair, which might be on purpose, and the grayer-than-usual undertones of her skin.

Shamir takes the lack of objection as an affirmation. “Thank you, Lysithea.”

“It’s truly the least I can do,” says Lysithea, though she seems somewhat pleased. “My family and staff are all quite busy, so I’ll help you set everything up. Oh,” she adds with a side glance, “and there’s plenty of room in the stables out back for your horses and wyvern as well.”

“Thank you,” mumbles Cyril.

They start down the rest of the short way leading to the doors of the Ordelia estate. As they grow closer, Catherine can see more time-created blemishes upon the building—crumbling sections turned to rubble, chipped paint, rust upon the door knocker. It had surely once been a beautiful, flawless structure, but lack of care has worn it down.

Lysithea coughs. “There will be some reconstruction performed soon. At present, we’ve mostly been working on restoring the interior so as to make it suitable for living.”

“I’ve seen worse,” says Shamir.

There’s a brief stutter in Lysithea’s step. “Yes, I suppose the monastery was considerably desolate as well, at least at first. The rubble in the cathedral—” She winces. “Well, we’re working on the exterior. No one here is too handy when it comes to physical matters.”

The conversation seems to have already moved on, but Catherine can’t help asking, “The monastery?”

“Oh. Well,” says Lysithea in a cool tone that suggests Catherine is being particularly daft, “the Imperial Army was stationed out of Garreg Mach, and with everything that occurred during the war—including the first offense against the Church of Seiros, which left it in quite the ruinous state—we had to clean regularly. The professor put us on rubble duty every week in an attempt to clear most of it up. I believe the cathedral is still in a remarkable state of disrepair.”

Catherine swallows back a retort of consecrated ground, but she still feels something burn in her chest.

Lysithea clears her throat. “We can discuss such matters further over dinner,” she says, though her firm tone suggests no intentions of bringing up the topic again. Good, as far as Catherine is concerned. “The kitchen staff is preparing a feast as we speak. It’ll be interesting to share the dining hall—our family doesn’t often eat together.”

“A feast?” Shamir blinks. “I was intending to prepare what we already had on us.”

“Well, you’ll all be treated to a fine Ordelia dinner if you wish. We have more than enough to spare.” At last, Lysithea smiles, weary but bright. Something in it fills Catherine with faint disgust. “I certainly hope you enjoy sweets.”

*

They’re lead straight to the dining hall, a handful of members of the Ordelia family and staff alike there to greet them. The room itself is beautiful; in disrepair, but far more ornate than the one at Garreg Mach. There’s even a chandelier.

Catherine sequesters herself and Cyril in a corner—House Ordelia acts nothing like her family, but still, she’s no longer certain of how to interact with nobles, and their eyes (all far darker than Lysithea’s) upon her unsettle rather than invigorate her. They eat without a word, ignoring the rumble of the family’s conversation with occasional interjections from Shamir. Neither Shamir nor Lysithea attempts to tag them in.

The food is decent, though, and even Cyril seems impressed at how well-done the meat is, telling a server to pass his compliments onto the chef. It’s a big change from eating shittily-prepared meat loaded with potential dangers. Catherine doesn’t let herself get used to it, but she does savor it while she can.

Afterward, the curtains drawn against a pitch-black sky, Lysithea dismisses her retainers to show Catherine, Cyril, and Shamir to their rooms herself, though she has to pause for breath at the end of every corridor. When they stop at Catherine and Cyril’s assigned quarters, Lysithea asks if they’d mind if Lysithea and Shamir went on ahead.

“There isn’t much to see past here anyway,” she says, supporting herself on the wall. “And you should get straight to acquainting yourselves with your rooms.”

It’s the type of question to which there is only one clear answer, so after an exchange of looks, Catherine and Cyril agree. Shamir doesn’t so much as blink as she and Lysithea depart.

The hallway is almost too silent with them gone, so Catherine turns to inspect her quarters with no further ado, Cyril in tow. Her room—and, as a glance into the room next door proves, Cyril’s—is sterile and empty. The only sign it’s even been maintained over at least the past five years is the cleanliness of the furniture. It seems to have once been meant for young children; a dilapidated piece of paper showing a child’s scrawl of a family with dark hair and purple clothing clings to the wall of Catherine’s room, cleft in twain from someone’s failed attempt to peel it off the wall. A cold, artificial feeling persists throughout both rooms. Their very presences—or Catherine and Cyril’s presence in them—seem to grate on the essence of the house.

There isn’t much they can do, so Catherine and Cyril part ways with an exchange of nods. Catherine spends a good portion of an hour figuring out how to fit into her bed. In the end, the lower half of her legs still hang off—she can’t imagine even Cyril could squeeze himself into it.

She can’t help but wonder what quarters Shamir is stuck with, seeming to be in a different wing of the mansion altogether, but that thought gets her nowhere fast.

Just as Catherine has gotten relatively comfortable, she realizes that she’s nowhere near tired. Her stomach is still full with everything she’d eaten, and her thoughts are buzzing too much for her to prepare to sleep.

So she slips back into her mud-streaked boots, reattaches her scabbard, pulls on an estate-provided robe to hide said scabbard from view, and slips out into the dark hallway. She doesn’t know the layout of the mansion well enough to navigate it well, so she’s not planning on going anywhere in particular. Maybe she’ll pace until her mind clears. She keeps careful track of her movements, eyeing portraits and sconces as she goes. Getting lost here would be a nightmare.

As she rounds a corner only down the hallway from her room, Catherine becomes aware of footsteps behind her own. Illogically, Catherine’s first thought is, _A ghost?_

She doesn’t dare look over her shoulder. Her back tenses, and she slides her hand to the cloaked hilt of her sword, waiting—

“Oh, it’s only you,” comes a voice, higher-pitched than usual but familiar, and Catherine turns to see Lysithea behind her. Her hair is down across her shoulders, lit in gold by the candlestick gripped close to her chest. Glowing dark magic—the sight sending an instinctive jolt down Catherine’s arm—fades from her other hand as it falls to her side. She tightens her jaw. “I walk the halls at night sometimes. There have been intruders in the past, so I’m prepared to take certain countermeasures.”

“Apparently,” says Catherine under her breath. “Sorry if I scared you. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“I understand.” Lysithea gives a firm but sage nod. “If there isn’t anything you require, then I should be on my way.”

She spins on her heel. Before she knows what she’s doing, Catherine calls out, “Wait,” and Lysithea comes to a halt not ten feet ahead of here, head tilted back to peer warily over her shoulder.

The silence hangs between them. The only sound is the hooting of an owl somewhere in a distant tree, and the only light in the hallway stems from Lysithea’s candlestick.

“Why did you—” Catherine is well aware that her question borders on invasive, and she isn’t sure she’ll like the answer, but it’s burning a brand into her chest, gumming up her throat, and she can’t swallow it down: “Why did you join her? Why did you turn against Lady Rhea?”

Another beat of silence. For a moment, Catherine is certain Lysithea won’t answer, with how pale she looks in the candlelight. Then she sighs.

“You’re aware of my two Crests, correct?” Lysithea’s tone is light, but her face is considerably harder, the deep lines of her face—in contrast to her youth—illuminated by the flickering fire.

“Yes.” Catherine’s response is automatic. She’s always been able to identify Crests in other people from looking at them, and while she’d guessed Lysithea had had a Crest of Charon at first glance, it had taken longer to piece together the other feeling surrounding Lysithea. She can’t pick out the differences between Major and Minor Crests, but if she had to guess from seeing Lysithea in battle… “A Minor Crest of Charon and a Major Crest of Gloucester. It should be impossible, but—”

Lysithea’s lips thin. “I wasn’t meant to have either one. I tried to hide it for some time, but now that the war is over—” She shakes her head. Her tone is somewhat listless, but a silent fury burns in her eyes as she adds, “They were artificially implanted in me when I was young. I became stronger in one sense, but I also became weak, and my hair and eyes changed color.”

 _You’re still young_ , Catherine wants to say as she looks with a start at Lysithea’s almost translucent skin, brittle platinum hair, narrow but hard-set jawline, and shrewd pink eyes. She doesn’t think Lysithea would take well to it. All she can manage is a weak, “How—?”

“I’d care not to discuss the details.” Lysithea’s eyes squeeze shut, and Catherine clamps her mouth shut. “All that matters is that it occurred. I need not share others’ secrets with you of all people, but Edelgard—she understood. And her ideals—” Her voice shifts to something wondering, admiring—less single-minded than Cyril’s devotion to Lady Rhea, but something along those lines, though perhaps it falls more in line with Catherine’s devotion. “I greatly respect Edelgard. She had the courage and the ambition to do something when everyone else stood by, ignorant or willing to turn a blind eye upon human suffering.”

“Are you—” Catherine digs her blunt nails into her palms. “Are you suggesting Lady Rhea was one of those people?”

Lysithea rests both her hands on her candlestick. “I doubt much of her ignorance was purposeful. However, I believe she was an ignorant woman nonetheless—only a woman, despite her persona and monstrous form,” she adds, tone sorrowful at the edges.

“Lady Rhea wasn’t a monster,” is all Catherine can bring herself to say, a hot, defensive flush crawling into her cheeks.

“On that, I agree. It would be all too easy to dismiss her as a monster.” Lysithea’s sigh tells of heavier burdens than her small form seems capable of shouldering. “But people can do far crueler things than monsters, Catherine, and they don’t always realize they’re doing them.”

“She—she broke, toward the end. Between what Edelgard and Byleth did, she wasn’t in her right mind—”

“Then why not intervene?” asks Lysithea, gaze burning and cold all at once. “Why not somehow convince her to abandon her plans?”

Pain crawls up Catherine’s arm—not her dominant arm, twisted by dark magic, but her other arm, a deep-seated pain she’s ignored for years. “Why wouldn’t _you_ try? Why wouldn’t Edelgard? If Lady Rhea had gotten to explain things, to apologize—”

Lysithea’s eyes flare. “Apologize? What good would an apology have done? Would it have restored the lives lost for Rhea’s ideals? Would it have absolved people like me and Edelgard and Cyril of the trauma we’ve endured under the systems and dogmas she and those before her set forth? Would it have removed the systems of isolation and fear and supposed natural selection under which we live? Would it have eliminated the discrimination and hardships people face due to the Crests they’re born with? Would it have returned the years of Cyril’s life he spent as a servant?” She shakes her head, fingers digging into the candlestick. “The time was far past for mere apologies. People like Edelgard and Claude could see that.”

“Still, there had to be a better way than waging a damn war against the Church. Edelgard could have tried to negotiate with Lady Rhea, she could have—”

“And how do you know that she hadn’t? It isn’t like you tried with Edelgard, either,” argues Lysithea. Her fingertips skirt around the fire burning just before her collar. “Though you didn’t so much as attempt to negotiate with your own leader, so blinded were you by her righteousness.”

“She wasn’t listening to anyone then. But I couldn’t leave. I loved her,” says Catherine, and something in her sharpens at saying so aloud, a quiet confession everyone had known already, a truth that scalds a hole in her gut and summons tears to the corners of her eyes. “I loved her, and I trusted her, even though I knew some of her decisions weren’t the best. You didn’t see her then. You wouldn’t have known how fucked up she was over everything, how—”

“And Edelgard’s and my lives were fucked up from the beginning.” It would be so much easier if Lysithea were yelling, but she’s almost whispering, remorse and pain overwhelming her faint voice. “I won’t defend everything Edelgard has done—for all of my respect for her, I do disagree with several of her actions and beliefs. You needn’t defend Rhea so vigilantly either. Wasn’t there anything you disagreed with before Fhirdiad?”

“I had faith in Lady Rhea’s judgment,” snaps Catherine, not thinking of all the times she’d suggested they back off, the times she’d thought Lady Rhea was making a mistake with her treatment of Cyril or the students or—in another direction—the professor, the times she’d doubted not Lady Rhea’s judgment but her own faith. “There are some things I will regret until my dying day, but one of them isn’t pledging my life and sword to her.”

“And I will never regret pledging mine to Edelgard and the world she strives to create.” The heat in Lysithea’s gaze gives way to somber reflection, and she sighs as she lowers her head. “I suppose the Crest of Charon makes us foolishly loyal in addition to our prowess in combat.”

Catherine’s eye is twitching, her stomach muscles tensing for a fight, but all of it seeps out of her at Lysithea’s half-smile. “It must.”

A moment passes, the candle’s light making Lysithea look like a perturbed ghost roaming the halls. Then she fixes Catherine with another sharp look and steps back. “I should go. Please think about what I’ve said. I don’t believe you to be a bad person, Catherine—I simply think you should question the difference between loyalty born out of trust and loyalty born out of fear and manipulation. The same applies to Cyril.” She gives a stilted bow. “Goodnight.”

She flees down the hall without another word. Catherine stands there for a few moments longer, wanting to call out but not knowing what the hell she has left to say.

 _Dammit,_ she thinks, out-argued by a twenty-year-old. Her face is still burning, skin warmer than it had felt even under the flames raging at Fhirdiad—the flames, a voice at the back of Catherine’s mind reminds her, that Lady Rhea had instructed them to set regardless of the civilian casualties. But she hadn’t been thinking properly, and—

And none of this matters now. They can’t take anything back now. Lady Rhea had made her decision, and no one can say anymore whether she would have grown to regret them. Catherine, too, had made her choices.

She shakes herself off and turns—and that’s when she catches a glimpse of a shape disappearing around a corner, too tall to be Lysithea. Catherine blinks. She doubts any of the staff members had been listening in, or at least that they wouldn’t be so obvious about it.

“Cyril?” she chances.

A beat, and then he steps back out, head bowed and feet shuffling. “I’m sorry. I just—I heard you get up, and then I heard Lysithea talking—”

“You’re not in trouble or anything,” says Catherine quickly, recognizing the nervous look in his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. And Lysithea and I had a little chat.” And now she doubts she’ll be able to sleep before dawn breaks, but she doesn’t mention that. “It’s late, though, so we should both be getting back to our rooms.”

“Right.” Cyril stays put, tugging at the straps of the robe he, too, has pulled on—it looks odd on him, not least because it only reaches his calves. It takes Catherine a moment to register the discomfort in his face in the darkness. “The stuff Lysithea was saying about Lady Rhea—”

Catherine digs her teeth into her lower lip and only releases it when she tastes blood. “She’s been through a lot,” she says, keeping bitterness out of her tone. “We’re leaving here tomorrow, anyway. Let’s not worry too much about all that now.”

Uncertainty lingers in his face, but he nods.

As they start back off, thoughts of a soft but undersized bed in which she’ll unlikely be able to find rest, Catherine is reminded of something. “Oh, hey, about your room—” All Cyril does now is blink at her, bewildered. “How big is your bed? Are you comfortable lying in it?”

“Oh, uh, I hadn’t really noticed.” Cyril shrugs. “I mean, it’s better than nothing—it’s a bed.” The excitement of that simple statement takes Catherine by surprise until she remembers: He hadn’t had one at the monastery.

Something stirs at the back of her mind, a puzzle piece attempting to brute-force its way into place, but she ignores it. “All right. Just curious. Rest up, all right, Cyril?”

“Only if you do too,” he says, gaze knowing, and Catherine winces.

“I’ll try,” she promises, ruffling his hair.

*

Catherine still remembers the last conversation she had with Shamir before everything went to hell. There’s no reason for her to, really, because it hadn’t been significant at the time—another post-mission conversation with her partner of the past four years, a biweekly occurrence at least—and the memory is hazy around the edges in the way certain memories tend to be, but her brain seems dedicated to hold it with her.

They’d been on a mission a few days before the professor was set to visit the Holy Tomb, basking in an odd sort of tension stirred up by recent events. Jeralt’s death, the professor’s reemergence with a new appearance… It had been a lot to go through in a mere couple of months. Catherine hadn’t even been allowed a break. The best she’d gotten had been accompanying Shamir on a simple mission to suppress a minor scuffle near Fódlan’s Locket. It was nonessential, Lady Rhea had told them, but Catherine hadn’t passed up the chance.

Her and Shamir’s work—a mix of half-assed diplomacy followed by combat—had been done in less than an hour. They’d always worked well together once they got down to it, setting aside their oft-quoted differences and managing to communicate without words.

Instead of serving as stress relief, though, the short battle had done more to aggravate Catherine’s nerves than settle them. It had been over so fast that she hadn’t gotten a chance to bask in it. She’d drawn back her sword, resting its blood-smeared tip across her shoulder, and watched Shamir rustle about. She’d had some sort of routine after battles, but Catherine had never asked—all she’d known for sure was that it wasn’t any mourning ritual.

Shamir had caught her gaze but not said anything, as per Shamir. Catherine had waited, outlet-less adrenaline pulsing in her veins, for Shamir to straighten back up and rejoin her.

They’d set off toward Garreg Mach not long after. From the look of the sky, they’d have to find an inn or somewhere to camp by nightfall, but hopefully the Goddess’s hand would keep them from being delayed for more than a day or two. She and Shamir hadn’t quite balanced each other out in terms of divine favor—Shamir had no faith in the Church’s religion whatsoever, but Catherine’s worship hadn’t been of the Goddess herself—but their job title had to count for something, Catherine had supposed.

As they walked, Catherine had jostled her shoulder against Shamir’s. “So, there’s been a lot happening, huh?” she’d asked, voice frayed and higher than usual.

Unsympathetic to her impending breakdown, amusement had flickered in Shamir’s eyes. “I would say so.”

“Right? It’s just one damn thing after another. This Holy Tomb deal—” Catherine had drummed her fingers against the steel hilt of her sword, gauntlets producing a hollow sound. “I imagine you’ll be accompanying the Black Eagles.” She’d not been slow on the uptake in regards to how closely-knit Shamir had become with the class.

“I intend to, yes. So long as Rhea allows it.”

Catherine had bitten back a correction of _Lady_ Rhea’s title. “Well, good luck, partner. I wish I could tag along, but I have other duties to take care of, so Lady Rhea says.” A sliver of bitterness had wormed its way into her voice. Lady Rhea surely had good reasons for keeping Catherine out of things, but still, something in Catherine had itched to see what wonders the Holy Tomb held within—and what wonders it would awaken in Byleth.

“I’ll tell you how it goes,” Shamir had said.

“What, really?” Catherine had asked, blinking, but Shamir’s expression had remained resolute—she wasn’t the joking type, Catherine had reminded herself. “How surprisingly generous. You don’t have to—”

“Think of it as a report. Something in return for all of the unwanted information you’ve provided me with.”

Catherine’s face had grown warm; something to blame on the sunset. “You’re really insistent upon paying your debts, huh? Well, if you’re offering, I have no choice but to take you up on it.”

Shamir had shrugged. “Take it or don’t.”

“No, I will,” Catherine had rushed to say, and she hadn’t thought she was imagining the faint smile Shamir gave her at that. “I’m really curious about what’s going to happen, to be honest, and—well, I imagined Lady Rhea would tell me later, but if all goes according to her plans, she’ll probably be too busy.” She had kicked a pebble in her path with inordinate force, sending it skittering all the way down the hill they were walking upon.

A thought had popped up unbidden: What _were_ Lady Rhea’s plans, really? It hadn’t been like she confided in Catherine of all people—not that Catherine would expect her to, not in a million years. But—

An irritated breath had slipped through Catherine’s teeth. “Ugh, this is so damn frustrating. What the hell is it about them, anyway?”

“Byleth, you mean?”

Catherine had snorted. “Of course Byleth. Who else? The fucking person of the hour, I guess.” She’d made a vague gesture with her hands, not sure herself what she’d meant to convey. Her hands had dropped in further frustration. “Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s all right,” Shamir had said with another shrug. “They’ve piqued my interest as well.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else.” Catherine had dragged a hand through her hair, probably mussing it up with blood and dirt. “Lady Rhea most of all. I just don’t _get_ it—they’re perfectly average aside from their mysterious past—no one’s even sure how old they are—and their weird Crest. And I guess their hair and eyes and everything now.”

“I understand as much as you do. Less, even.” With a fleeting smile, Shamir had shaken her head. “Fódlan is interesting.”

Catherine had glanced over to find Shamir’s expression sunken back into something unreadable, tone even less so. She’d taken the opportunity to shift the topic: “It is. So are you planning on staying here even after you’ve repaid your debt to Lady Rhea?”

“Not forever. I’d still like to travel.” Shamir’s gaze had flickered to the side, meeting Catherine’s ever so briefly, before cutting away again. “But I could be compelled to stick around.”

There had been something in her voice that neither of them had addressed. They’d expected to have plenty of time to. Time to banter, time to make plans, time to bring up everything that hung between them—it had all seemed far too plausible then, hope evident enough that they ought to have recognized it as a false sense of security. Catherine, therefore, had had no qualms about changing the subject again.

“You know, speaking of the professor, Cyril was wondering about changing his hair color to match theirs,” she’d said with a snort. “I overheard him telling them so. Thought they looked like they could be related to Lady Rhea, apparently.”

Shamir had tapped her chin. “That’s true.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Something had prickled at the back of Catherine’s mind, but she’d refused to chase after it. She’d slid her hands in her pockets and brought them full circle. “It just feels like it never ends, y’know? There have been so many big things happening, but somehow I’ve got a feeling that the biggest is yet to come. A premonition of sorts. Except a pretty half-assed one, because I’ve got no idea what that big thing will be.”

“Peace, with any luck,” Shamir had said, and Catherine had stumbled at the wistfulness peeking through her expression.

Catherine had clicked her tongue. “Luck means nothing in the face of hope, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t have much of that anymore, so I’ll have to settle for luck. You can hope all you want.” Shamir had paused for a moment, wind making her hair drift into her face. “But if anything worth noting happens in the Holy Tomb, you’ll be the first to know after the Black Eagles. I promise.”

“Thanks,” Catherine had said, grin returned, and they’d both fallen silent at the sight of a town upon the horizon, neither paying attention to the cruel knots of fate twisting around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this chapter is one of my favorites -- i don't know if catherine and lysithea's conversation quite lived up to the vision i had when i was first outlining, but i've forgotten that vision completely by now, so it ended up pretty decent in my book!
> 
> also -- i would feel remiss to not mention this, but i'm not sure exactly how far i can go without breaching ao3 tos and i'm not too great with my words lately, so i'll just say: stay safe, stay angry, and donate if you're able.
> 
> anyway, thanks so much for reading! _next time_ : a monster and a decision. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always super appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	8. what we're up against

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter eight: violence, mild blood/gore/body horror (nothing too major), and major character injury. also, animal death in a sense...? but also Not Really -- check the endnotes for more details.
> 
> chapter title from "up against me" by lp. enjoy!

Come morning, Shamir at first doesn’t know where she is. She isn’t used to sleeping under a firm roof anymore, let alone in a real bed. When the stark white ceiling, made bright by dawn creeping in through the curtains, comes into hazy view, her first (irrational) thought is that perhaps she’s died.

That notion clears soon enough when she sits up and registers the softness of the mattress beneath her. Shamir rubs her eyes with a grimace and wastes no time in getting up. She takes advantage of the bath in an adjoining room, washing herself off with ice-cold water before leaving, not so much as bothering to towel herself off all the way. She doesn’t let herself get used to the feeling of sinking into water that isn’t outdoors or potentially clogged with pollution, because it’s a luxury she won’t be able to afford again for some time, but it’s at least decent while it lasts.

It isn’t a surprise to find Catherine and Cyril loitering in the hallway outside their rooms, looking awkward and uncomfortable in the Ordelia household. The three of them exchange nary a word as they head toward the exit together.

Before they can leave, Lysithea treats them to a very sugary breakfast. She’s distant throughout, even with her parents and an uncle—one of several, Shamir has come to believe—and his husband to join them. But her eyes are bright, and her gaze is just as calculating as it always has been, if not more so.

Shamir resigns herself to a corner of the table. By obligation if nothing else, Catherine and Cyril take the seats across from her. They eat in silence, in contrast to the loud family down the table from them.

She takes the opportunity to gauge their statuses. While Shamir had slept well enough last night, uncomfortable as she had been after so long finding hard ground and flimsy cots to rest in, she can’t say the same for her companions. Cyril’s exhaustion seems eased, but distraction undercuts his movements—his glances are fleeting, and he toys with his food. Catherine is far worse off, eyes shadowed and hair messy. She keeps slumping forward with her head in her hand, almost looking ready to fall asleep at the table.

“Did either of you sleep?” asks Shamir, in a low tone that slips beneath the roar of Lysithea’s uncle’s laughter.

“Eventually,” says Cyril.

“Bed was too small,” mumbles Catherine. Judging from the twitch of her nose—a years-old tell that she’s hiding something, if not outright lying, though Shamir doubts this given her height—that’s the least of her problems.

Shamir folds her arms and sits back. She’ll only eat as much as she needs. “Rest now if you must. We won’t be leaving for a bit, but if we want to make it into the Empire today, we’ll be traveling until dusk.”

Catherine’s head drops into her crook of her elbow. Cyril starts eating with more exuberance. From the other end of the table, Lysithea glances over with a worried purse of her lips, but Shamir shakes her head as surreptitiously as she can. Shoulders relaxing, Lysithea returns to her conversation with her parents and uncles.

No one takes the seconds offered by the kitchen staff. Lysithea’s family is loud—far more so than Shamir had expected—but not enough so to stir Catherine, who is still drowsy when Shamir shakes her awake upon bringing herself to set off. Shamir insists upon taking care of her, Catherine, and Cyril’s dishes (no use accruing more debt). Lysithea offers her free reign of Ordelia territory to practice shooting, but Shamir rejects the offer.

Her family bids them farewell one at a time. Countess Ordelia compliments Shamir on the make of her bow, though Shamir can’t tell her where she’d gotten it. The count asks after Shamir’s Dagdan heritage, to which Shamir has little to say or do but nod or shake her head in response to his neutral questions. Lysithea’s uncles thank Shamir in an undertone for what she had done during the war to help Lysithea. Count Ordelia’s younger brother mentions that he hadn’t seen Lysithea smile in years, and his husband notes that there are portraits to prove it.

“If you want to thank anyone, thank Edelgard and Byleth,” Shamir tells them. “I’m just a mercenary.”

They both pale at her casual address of the emperor, but they nod as well. “Still, thank you for your service,” says the younger Ordelia, and Shamir can’t bring herself to object to that.

As she had greeted them the day before, Lysithea sees them off herself, standing right outside the doors as perhaps a compromise to her retainers. She looks steadier than she had the day before, though there is still a slight tremor in her leg as she holds herself upright.

“Well,” she says, as somber as if it had been years that they’d stayed at the Ordelia estate rather than a night and a morning, “this is it.”

Shamir bows her head in some approximation of gratitude. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“As I said earlier, I did the least I could do.” Lysithea inclines her head in return. “I hope you’re able to effectively complete your mission. And—” She bites her lip, attention passing over Shamir to the two behind her, hands on their returned mounts’ reins. “I wish the best to the two of you as well. I hope that when next we meet, it shall be on better terms. I’m not necessarily one for prayers—” her arms cross almost on instinct “—but may the three of you travel safely.”

There’s something heavy in her gaze that Shamir doesn’t care to examine, but Catherine and Cyril both exhale at the weight of her words. Catherine’s expression shifts into something doleful while Cyril looks away, boots scuffing on the ground.

“Thank you. Good luck with restoring Ordelia,” says Shamir. “I’ll pass your thanks onto Ferdinand.”

“And I’ll pass yours onto my family and staff.” Glancing between the three of them, Lysithea manages a smile. “It was… good to see you. I love my family dearly, of course, but—” she glances over her shoulder and then back, as if someone is going to burst through the doors and cry blasphemy “—admittedly, it gets somewhat dull at times.”

“I understand.” Shamir doesn’t in the literal manner, but she grasps the basic sentiment. “Goodbye, Lysithea.”

Lysithea raises a hand in silent farewell, fingers trembling—out of weakness or sentimentality, it’s hard to tell. Shamir doesn’t look back as they head back down the hill, but she’s sure that Lysithea stands there at the doors of her mansion until they’ve faded from sight, still waving goodbye.

*

The last leg of their journey toward the Alliance-Empire border is as silent and efficient as possible. As soon as the Ordelia home is out of sight, they continue on horseback. Cyril’s wyvern bounds alongside at a pace previously thought inaccessible, her recovery perhaps expedited by her time in the stables.

Emboldened by his experience yesterday, Cyril notes birds soaring above from time to time. Most of his knowledge is generic, things Shamir knows in passing if not in full, but he seems happy enough to share that Shamir only hushes him when she thinks she hears something.

They wind along side paths and through wooded areas to make their way out of Ordelia territory without incident. Deirdru looms in the distance before long. Its glittering port is almost tempting, but there are no sailors nor sea routes Shamir trusts enough to complete their trip that way. She hesitates for a moment anyway, recollections rolling through her. Her most significant visit to Deirdru—aside from earlier missions under the Church—had been during its siege, which doesn’t lend itself to very pleasant memories, but she recalls its harbor and streets well enough.

The combined scents of Deirdru’s seawater and delicacies waft toward them. Shamir pretends to ignore the growling of Cyril’s stomach. She’s spent enough time in Deirdru to know the taste and smell of their famous pastries and taffies, unappealing to her but delicious to many. She pledges to bring some to Lysithea the next time she passes through.

For now, unnecessary future plans aside, they dismount and skirt cleanly around the noisy city. They keep at a quicker pace than their usual walking speed and veer off the route to avoid being seen.

A stretch of wilderness fills the space between Deirdru and the Great Bridge of Myrddin. With Deirdru behind them, Shamir allows herself to slow while she still can. The journey through the Empire should be far easier than those through the Alliance and the Kingdom had been, but their growing proximity to Enbarr will mean they’ll have to pick up the pace.

At the thought that her mission will be complete in the near future, a feeling Shamir can’t pin down fills her. She doesn’t have any need for it, but she acknowledges it nonetheless. Relief mixed with—

It doesn’t matter, really. Shamir’s feelings, she decides, are not a relevant variable when it comes to missions. She depends on her orders (unofficial or no) and objectivity. Her life and her job—synonyms, more or less—leave no room for emotions, so Shamir dismisses whatever is stirring within her chest as unimportant.

She switches her attention to her surroundings. Her horse’s reins are rough in her hands, and the ground is steady beneath them as she twists back onto the path. In every direction, there’s nothing but green grass and cloudy blue skies. Her ears strain to listen to distant chirping.

Then Shamir inhales through her nose. She picks up the scent of sulfur, and she goes rigid as she breathes it in, the sharp smell calling old experiences to mind. She halts her horse and raises a hand for Catherine and Cyril to stop as well. Every nerve on Shamir’s body is on end, waiting for the sucker punch. She can feel the confusion behind her, but her teeth are gritted, her fingers already poised to grab her bow and nock an arrow, her hair on end along her arms and neck—

A roar rips through the silence, inhuman—monstrous—and far too close for Shamir’s liking, seeming to uproot the dirt itself as it tears across the clearing. Its source is undeniable.

“ _Shit,”_ mutters Shamir, almost inaudible.

Her muscles grow taut as a Demonic Beast steps out before them, jaw still unhinged in its cry. For a moment, the world is still.

The Beast dwarfs all of them in its shadow alone. It isn’t a wolf or bird, something Shamir is used to taking down by the dozens; it’s her least favorite, the horrific creature twisted from any facsimile of a recognizable shape. Shiny, solid scales cover its hulking form, shifting together with each heavy footfall. The horn jutting from its boulder of a head pierces the sky. There are weak spots, chinks in that natural armor, but from where Shamir is standing (physically and metaphorically), she can’t pinpoint them. Small eyes in relation to the rest of a massive body peer down at them, eliminating any already slim chances of escape.

It’s been a long time since Shamir has seen anything as large as Rhea’s automatons, but it hasn’t been so long as to make her forget the protocols. Adrenaline jolts through her system. Before she knows it, her bow is in her hand, her eyes darting every direction in search of a proper sniping point. But they’ve already been spotted, and there’s nowhere more elevated than the Beast’s back, so it looks like she’ll have to stay in place.

She’s nowhere near the tactical genius the Imperial leaders and Khalid are, but she knows enough. “Catherine, Cyril,” she says over her shoulder, “take whatever strength you have and attack. I’ll flank you.”

If they protest, it’s lost in the wind. Shamir’s focus is steadfast; she doesn’t delight in battle like some do, but she has no choice but to face this with everything she has. She swings onto her horse—undaunted even in the face of such a monster—and spurs her forward.

This, Shamir is familiar with. With help, she’d been able to fell plenty of these monsters during her time in the Black Eagle Strike Force—and she’s certainly not alone now.

Years ago, the thought would have irritated if not outright revolted her. Now, even with the context of why, it’s encouraging, a boost to their chances of success.

Disregarding her thoughts, Shamir hones her focus to the battle before her. She raises her bow and fires off an arrow. It glances off the Beast’s throat—the Beast is slow but not that slow, and it ambles toward her, lunging out with sharp, poison-coated (something Shamir knows from experience) claws in retaliation.

Shamir’s horse leaps back just in time. Shamir pats her neck, then takes advantage of the proximity to switch to her lance and jab it into the Beast’s leg. It roars and shudders backward, but it doesn’t seem too bloodied.

“Hey!” comes a shout from the side, and Shamir’s head jerks around to find Catherine galloping forth, charging straight for the Demonic Beast with her sword in hand. “Have you ever heard the name Thunder Catherine? Well, you’re about to forget it!”

Not her best line. Shamir looks away with a grimace; the Beast, with whatever limited understanding of Fódlan it possesses in its mangled form, turns toward her, head tilted in bewilderment at the relatively smaller creatures rushing at it. Catherine raises her silver sword and drives it into the Beast’s side.

This time, the effect is immediate. An ear-splitting shriek rumbles out as the Beast rumbles back. Catherine’s blade comes back covered in deep maroon blood.

“It’s weak to swords,” Shamir can just get out, and she doesn’t bother to wait for Catherine’s nod of acknowledgment before doubling back to avoid a blast of poison.

Something occurs to her as she does: Cyril isn’t behind Catherine on her horse, but she doesn’t see him on foot anywhere else. Brief panic surges up. If he had fled, she would catch up to him eventually, but—

A shadow above catches Shamir’s attention, and her eyes widen when she recognizes it as a low-flying wyvern carrying someone on its back. When it swoops down, her rider becomes visible—Cyril, improperly attached but beaming regardless, framed by each beat of his wyvern’s wing. It seems she flies after all.

Cyril himself wields only a miniature bow, but he carries it with pride, the same honor he’d held a feeble stick with as a child. Even without Shamir, he’s improved. It’s obvious in the way he handles the bow—and the way he doesn’t hesitate for an instant before nocking an arrow and letting it fly, the surprise shot to its back startling the Beast.

Shamir dismounts and charges. She swaps weapons again and uses the distraction to lodge an arrow between two scaly plates, piercing fleshy skin beneath. The Beast hisses through mouthfuls of sharp teeth. Where such a hit would have otherwise stunned a Demonic Beast, this creature seems sharper than ever.

Catherine leaps off her own horse and slices at the Beast’s side. When it breathes acid to her, she flips—impressively acrobatic—to the side. She blows hair out of her eyes as she straightens back up with a glare.

Between the three of them and their mounts in good condition, they could take a Demonic Beast down without much hassle. But Cyril’s wyvern’s wings are already starting to stutter, the two of them drifting closer to the ground—and, by extension, the Beast. Catherine’s sword hand is faltering, pain clear in her face. Shamir is the fittest of them, and even she’s beginning to slow down, the clear strength and vitality of the Demonic Beast wearing down her confidence.

She takes a blast of poison to the face and grimaces, already feeling the inhuman toxins seeping into her body, leeching her of her strength. She doesn’t have anything to combat it—a vulnerary or two, sure, but for once she hadn’t thought to pack antitoxins.

Shamir grits her teeth. Knocked down here of all times, and because she’s been caught unprepared and off guard—some luck she has.

But she still has some fight in her, and it’ll take a few minutes before the poison starts to weigh her down. Shamir doubles back and hunches down, taking the most sniper-friendly position she can manage. Her horse is nowhere to be seen, probably having been spooked and rushed off into the woods. Being trained by Ferdinand, Hubert, and Shamir had made for questionable self-preservation methods. If Shamir is alive to be able to do so (a possibility she takes with open arms—but she isn’t dead _yet_ ), she’ll recover her.

As the poison courses through her, Shamir’s arrows start missing more, aim slipping and vision doubled. Catherine and Cyril are still chipping away enough that she doubts they notice, but Shamir tightens her grip on her bow anyway. She has no excuse to falter now of all times. At Fhirdiad, her hair had been on fire and smoke had been in her eyes, but she’d still gotten away with nothing more than sore limbs and a new scar on her cheek where a javelin had glanced off her skin. This is nothing.

Or at least it shouldn’t be, but here Shamir is anyway, clinging to consciousness. _Dammit_. She’s fought in three wars, escaping all not unscathed but alive, which is more than she can say for most—and this is where she falls? Shamir doesn’t often think about fate, but now, she can’t help but shake her head at the irony.

She shoots and misses completely, arrow hitting the ground at the Demonic Beast’s claws. Shamir stumbles, the poison taking its toll. When she presses a hand to her side, it comes away stained with red. Shamir’s gaze travels numbly over the blood dripping from her gloved fingers. When had she been struck? She’d been too distracted by the poison and her quick retreat to pay much attention to where the Demonic Beast’s claws were aimed, let alone feel a swipe—a rookie mistake, embarrassing and idiotic.

Pain runs through her body. Her eyelids feel heavier than they have in years. Her knees buckle out from under her.

 _Fuck,_ Shamir thinks. _I miscalculated._

The last thing she registers is a shout of her name.

*

For a brief moment, everything goes in slow motion.

And then everything is moving much too fast. Shamir misses, and then she stumbles, hitting the ground with a _thud_ that Catherine hears even through the pounding of her head and the rush of wind around her.

“ _Shamir!”_

The yell tears itself free from Catherine’s throat before she can stop herself, raw and high with terror. It shouldn’t be, by all means—but fear still locks up all of Catherine’s joints when she sees Shamir fall, blood staining the grass where she lies, stoic and silent even when so heavily wounded.

But inactivity won’t help a damn thing here. Catherine gnashes her teeth and forces herself to focus. She sizes up the situation: Shamir is unconscious and farther from Catherine than she is from the Demonic Beast, which snorts as if it knows of Catherine’s predicament. Any move Catherine makes, something bad is sure to happen. If she’s too slow in getting to Shamir, the Demonic Beast will pounce; if she gets to Shamir in time, it’ll be hot on her heels or turn to Cyril. Or—no, Catherine realizes, Cyril is pulling back. He’s recognized the imminent chance of peril for once and is removing himself from danger, taking one burden off Catherine’s shoulders—

Cyril lands only several feet away. Catherine watches with horror as he dismounts beside Shamir’s fallen form.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. If Catherine runs, she’ll make it to them both in time, but the Demonic Beast would be able to strike them all down in one fell swoop. If she somehow gets Cyril and runs in the opposite direction—

Catherine’s teeth grit as she gets down to the vital question: Herself or Shamir? Who is more important to save?

This time, at odds with all of the hypotheticals that had built up in her mind over her years as a Knight of Seiros, Catherine decides that she doesn’t have to fucking choose. She throws Cyril what’s left of a vulnerary, barks, “Give her that!” and charges straight for the Demonic Beast.

She slides her gauntlets on as she moves, steel clicking into place against her knuckles. Her hands are heavier as they settle on the hilt of her sword, but the weight only propels her forward. With a grin, she lunges.

The Beast claws at her, but Catherine bears even the hits she can’t dodge with gritted teeth. It’s an ornery thing, that much is certain.

“Any other time, I’d respect your tenacity,” Catherine snarls, “but now, why don’t you just hurry up and die already? And _stay_ down!”

She raises her gauntlets rather than her sword, thrown aside in her aggravation. Steel knocks against scales—Catherine’s fists dig into the Beast’s side, punching out indiscriminately to find the weak spots in its armor but not caring so long as she gets to do _some_ damage. The Beast recoils and roars. Catherine is getting real tired of hearing that sound.

Poison bubbles from its jaws. Catherine leaps back in time for the toxic cloud to miss her, fumes trailing off below her chin. She coughs as she dives back in. The Demonic Beast seems like it should be on death’s door, but it’s clinging on with everything it has. She needs something more decisive to bring it down.

What had Shamir said? Catherine racks her abuzz brain. That’s right: _It’s weak to swords._

Catherine doesn’t have the luxury of time to dive for her regular silver sword, so instead, she tears Thunderbrand from its sheath. As a child, she had been told rumors—fairytales, really, legends native to Faerghus—of the ghosts that lurked within Heroes’ Relics, vengeful spirits that would drive the wielders insane. She’d grown up to renounce them as fables, but every time she lifts Thunderbrand, Catherine can’t help but shudder at the power it holds, the sensation that a piece of her soul is eroded away and consumed with each swing.

Maybe, Catherine thinks sometimes, that’s what she deserves for all she’s done. Now, no thoughts of the kind occupy her mind—all she cares about is bringing this monster to its grave. She slices away at its scales, kicks at what of its limbs she can reach, punches its weak points to stir its agitation if nothing else.

Demonic Beasts, she considers, are birthed from those without Crests trying to wield Relics. The Goddess levies her wrath upon them, so it’s said. Catherine wonders how long this creature has roamed Fódlan; if there’s still a human within the shell, if they too will join the ghosts occupying Thunderbrand’s Crest Stone upon being put down.

Catherine abandoned any semblance of remorse years ago. Still, she can’t help but grimace as she buries her sword one last time into the gap between plates of armor in the Demonic Beast’s leg.

The snarl it lets loose is wet and gasping, and Catherine reels back in preparation for a final storm of poison that never comes. The Beast’s body heaves with breaths, some demented sense of determination driving it on. One more strike, though, and—

Pain rips through Catherine’s arm just as she tries to tear her sword free. She grits her teeth against it, the wave weaker now that she expects it—she knows why it’s happening and what to do to combat it, how to bear it. A deep breath peels through her teeth as she curls her fingers tighter around her sword. Her knuckles bruise white beneath steel gauntlets and trickles of blood. As hard as she’s fighting to overcome the ache filling her sight with spots, dancing around the corners rather than flooding her field of vision but no less annoying, she’s still stuck here, uselessly gripping a sword buried halfway into a Demonic Beast. And if the pain doesn’t pass soon, there’s no telling what fate she’ll meet.

Her eyes flicker to Shamir—and, still at her side with his bow beside him, Cyril.

“Cyril! A little help, please!” calls Catherine, and in a flash, he’s grabbed his bow and, so fast she barely even sees him knocking an arrow, shot straight for the creature’s chest. The arrow lands with a satisfying _crunch_.

With a deafening roar, spittle flying from its stretched maw (Catherine, recalling the poisonous gas, ducks out of the way), the Demonic Beast falls, Catherine’s sword buried in its side and arrows pelting its form, their sprawl almost cartoonish, like strings holding it together. Catherine blinks away her pain and wrenches Thunderbrand out with a disgusted scowl. She’ll be cleaning Demonic Beast blood off for weeks.

She waits a moment to see if the unbreathing Demonic Beast will stir once more, because she’s seen far stranger things, but it stays still. Catherine’s sword hangs limp at her side. She takes a deep breath, pulse still thrumming beneath her skin. Out of the corners of her eyes, she sees Cyril throwing his bow aside and kneeling at Shamir’s side.

Catherine hurries over. “How is she? Is she all right?”

Cyril has a hand to her throat already, fingers pressed to her pulse point, but his eyes are on the wound in her side. Crimson weeps through her top. “I—I don’t know,” manages Cyril. “Her heart is still beating, and I think the vulnerary helped—” he nods to where the bottle lies empty beside Shamir, a few spilled drops visible on her chin “—but she’s not looking real good. I think she might still be poisoned, and since we don’t have an antitoxin or anything…” His head lowers.

“Fuck,” mutters Catherine. She resheathes her sword and clutches at her cheeks, willing herself to _think, dammit, think_. “Okay. Okay. Did you check—”

“She doesn’t have anything besides another vulnerary on her, unless it’s hidden really well,” says Cyril, shaking his head. His jaw works. “That was my first thought too. She’s always prepared so well, but—”

“But the one time she wasn’t—” _Something like this happens,_ Catherine thinks but can’t bring herself to say.

Okay. Catherine paces and, compelling her hazy mind to work normally, runs through her options as fast as she can. They’re almost out of vulneraries, and Shamir doesn’t have any heavy-duty supplies on her. Deirdru is close enough that they could make it if they take the horses—or Cyril’s wyvern, but Catherine doubts she’d be able to carry more than Cyril—but it’s risky, enough so to give Catherine pause. Shamir hadn’t taken them through any towns, let alone the Alliance capital, for a reason.

What else is there? Catherine had already given up her last remaining healing item, but this can’t be it. Shamir wouldn’t be too disappointed about meeting her end in this sort of fashion, and Catherine doesn’t doubt she has contingency plan upon contingency plan in regards to her mission, but Catherine—Catherine can’t fucking let it end like this. She can’t let Shamir die, let alone like this.

There has to be something. Cyril’s eyes are watering and focused on Catherine as she storms back and forth, wringing her hands, glaring at the slain husk of a beast behind her.

Then she stops. There’s one other option, isn’t there? In the end, she supposes, it’s the only one.

She nods Cyril aside, and he goes without a word, perhaps seeing her plan—or at least her staunch determination—in her face. Hunched over Shamir, Catherine thinks for an instant about how tired she’s always looked even in sleep, though this state of unconsciousness is as far from voluntary as she can get. She smooths sweat-slicked hair out of Shamir’s face and glances over her once more to gauge Shamir’s injuries. She takes a deep breath—

Then she raises her hands and lets the faith bleed out of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler-y warning: demonic beast death. i don't think that really counts as animal death, but maybe not?? was truly at a loss tbh.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! my note from last time still stands, though i'll add [[this carrd of ways to help](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/)]. _next time_ : a meeting and a game. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	9. hand in unlovable hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter nine: manipulation, major character injury with mild blood, and brief emetophobia (self-induced vomiting; this one is subtle enough to skip, so see the endnotes if you'd like to do that).
> 
> since i've finished editing, i'll be shifting to biweekly updates starting next week ( **tuesdays** and **fridays** ). chapter title from "no children" by the mountain goats. enjoy!

Newly twenty-two and still unused to her surroundings, Shamir had stood in an ornate room, nothing like the more minimalistic religious institutions of Dagda, and turned her skin to iron.

The room had felt sterile and stiff, its walls washed with white and its architecture rigid. Between the brightness of the walls and the stained glass behind Archbishop Rhea’s head, Shamir’s head had hurt, but she had kept herself calm and neutral as she’d spoken. She’d met Rhea’s gaze with a steadiness she’d doubted few others possessed when addressing Fódlan’s archbishop.

Rhea, Shamir had been certain, was an interesting person. Something about her gaze had put Shamir on edge since the very moment they’d fallen on her—it had been calculating in a way unbefitting of the religious authority Rhea held and the glowing reviews everyone seemed to offer of her, though some had done so with twitchy hands and glances over their shoulders. Shamir hadn’t wanted to show weakness in front of such a person. She’d had no choice before, feeling like she couldn’t refuse the offered assistance, even if it meant indebting herself to someone so—

There had been a great many adjectives she could’ve applied to Rhea, but Shamir hadn’t felt like considering them under Rhea’s smile. So she had willed away that train of thought.

She had stood still and made herself into a pillar as sturdy and stony as those surrounding them. Her hand had hung limp in Rhea’s strong grip, the sign of her pledge to sign on as a mercenary. The terms of their unwritten contract, something Shamir had always been so particular about, hovered around them, and Shamir hadn’t been certain she could list them off if prompted.

“I look forward to working with you,” Rhea had told her. “Though I must remind you once more that it’s wholly unnecessary for you to repay me, I expect that the Knights of Seiros will benefit greatly from your services. You have my gratitude.”

“You helped me,” Shamir had said, an accent creeping into her words, “even though I am not from Fódlan nor a believer of the Church. For that, I owe you.”

Rhea had bowed her head. “I am doing simply what our beloved Goddess asks of me.”

Shamir hadn’t scoffed, because this would be her employer from now on, but she had felt one of her eyes twitch. “I see.” With a jerk of her head to the side, bumping her short hair into her eyes, she’d added, “If that will be all—”

“Actually, if you have any more time to spare, I would like to introduce you to someone.” Shamir had bristled, but Rhea’s face had shown no sign of discouragement. She’d raised her voice to call: “Catherine, please enter.”

A very short pause had ensued. The doors had creaked open, and escorted in by one of the guards, a woman within a couple years of Shamir’s age had entered, mouth already open to say, “You called me, Lady Rhea?” The amount of reverence around the title hadn’t been subtle, and Shamir had second-guessed herself for the first time since stepping into the room.

Rhea had lifted a long-fingered hand swathed in the cloth of her flowing sleeve. “At ease, Catherine.”

The almost overwhelming respect and adoration in Catherine’s stance hadn’t lessened, but she’d slowed as she came to stand at Shamir’s side. Out of the corners of her eyes, Shamir had sized her up in a few quick glances. A full-fledged Knight of Seiros, judging from her armor (neat, well-fitted, pale silver, bearing the symbol of Seiros above her chest) and bearing ( _swagger_ , Shamir would later realize, had been a more accurate term). Taller and more muscular than Shamir. Confident, hand resting upon her sword’s hilt, though that meant nothing if she couldn’t back it up in combat. Short blonde hair framing a strong-jawed face, shade bright against warm brown skin. Given the extent of her attention on Rhea, Shamir hadn’t been able to get a significant read on Catherine’s actual level of ability or personality. She’d have to reserve her judgment for now.

“This is my new partner, I take it?” Catherine had asked.

Shamir had paused. Rhea had known, at least in passing, about her past—about her former partner and their fate. Though Shamir hadn’t told her the details, she’d mentioned the most generic oversight of her work in Dagda (almost seven years’ worth of it, tracing back to her childhood) she could muster, the closest thing she had to a resume. Assigning her to a new partner was, at best, questionable.

But Rhea hadn’t been looking at her, instead smiling at a vague place in the space between Catherine and Shamir’s faces. “Indeed,” she’d confirmed. “Catherine, this is the mercenary I’ve just hired, Shamir. Shamir, this is Catherine, one of our very own Knights of Seiros—and one of our top members, at that.”

“You’re too kind, Lady Rhea,” Catherine had said beamingly, loud enough to border on raucous.

 _Oh,_ Shamir had thought. _Another knight who loves the sound of her own voice._

“I only speak the truth,” Rhea had said, smile neutral in response to Catherine’s preening. “I hope that the two of you will be able to pool your collective efforts and talents to work well together.”

Catherine had swelled up even further. “I’m sure we will!”

Shamir had only hummed. She’d felt Catherine’s eyes flicker over her, gauging her in return, but she’d not glanced back over, keeping her eyes focused on the stained glass behind Rhea’s head.

“Oh, you are free to leave now,” Rhea had added. “May the Goddess’s blessings follow you.”

Shamir had almost waited for a more decisive dismissal, but she’d followed suit with Catherine’s quick bow (though hers was shallower) and quick retreat. The guards had closed the doors behind them with a definite _slam_. As soon as they’d descended the staircase to emerge in the reception hall, devoid of students, Catherine had sighed and clasped a hand to her chest.

“You would think I would get used to that by now,” she’d mumbled, presumably not for Shamir’s ears. Shamir had averted her gaze until Catherine had straightened up, breathing still on the heavier side, and offered a gloved hand. “Anyway! It’s nice to meet you, partner. You’re from Dagda, aren’t you? Mercenary work—” She’d whistled. Somewhere in the distance, audible through the doors of the reception hall, a bird had whistled back, though Catherine had ignored this. “Quite a lucrative gig, so I hear. Like Lady Rhea said, I’m Catherine, one of the Knights of Seiros. How are you feeling? I hear you’ve been through a lot.”

After briefly weighing her options, Shamir had shaken the outstretched hand. “Hi. I’m Shamir,” she’d said, not bothering to answer any of Catherine’s questions.

Catherine’s smile had faltered at the brusqueness, but she hadn’t commented. “Do you want me to show you around the monastery? I imagine Lady Rhea has told you about what we have to offer here—she’s very thorough,” she’d said in an aside that Shamir, quite frankly, disagreed with, “but you’ll learn much faster if you take a look around.”

“I have already seen most of the monastery grounds. I’ll visit what I have not—” _and revisit what I already have_ , she hadn’t noted; the marketplace had been colorful and lively, just the opposite of what Shamir usually liked, but something about it had drawn her in “—later. On my own.”

“Oh. All right.” Deflated, Catherine had hovered for a moment, swaying on her feet. “Well, we can at least drop by the dining hall. You must be starving.”

“I ate before my meeting with Rhea.”

“ _Lady_ Rhea,” Catherine had corrected, seemingly on sheer instinct.

“Right. Archbishop Rhea. I am unused to Fódlan’s… conventions of speech, especially in regards to religion.” It hadn’t been an excuse nor an apology, only a fact.

“Oh, it’s not really about religion for me. I just—I respect Lady Rhea a lot, you know? And I think others should show her that respect.”

Privately, Shamir had wondered what the point of a single title was as long as one’s general conduct was respectful, but she had digressed. A cultural difference, perhaps. As uncomfortable as the arrangement was, it would have been unwise to argue with her new partner this early on. “I see,” she’d said instead.

Catherine’s hackles had lowered. “Great! If you don’t want to eat or get a grand tour of the monastery, do you at least want to drop by the training grounds? I’ve been raring to spar all day, and none of the other knights except Alois will spar with me anymore. They say I’m a sore winner, and I always win.” She’d grinned, putting a set of pearly white teeth on full display.

She had clearly been talking only to hear her own voice at this point, but Shamir hadn’t pointed it out. “I would prefer to spend some time training alone tonight.”

“You like to do a lot of things alone, huh? Well, to each their own, but—”

“Listen,” Shamir had interrupted, and Catherine had stopped, blinking in surprise. “I haven’t worked with a partner in almost two years. I’ve worked alone since I arrived in Fódlan. That is how I operate now, for the most part.” She’d adjusted her lance where it was sheathed on her hip. It had been visible throughout the entire meeting, but Catherine had glanced down like it was the first time she’d noticed it.

“If you need some time to adjust, I’m fine with that.” Catherine had raised her hands in defense. “But we’re partners now, partner. So try to work with me, all right? The two of us come from completely different backgrounds, I’m sure, but Lady Rhea trusted us to combine our skills to work well together.”

Oh, the crux of the matter. Shamir had still been working her way through that. It was reasonable to assume Rhea had meant no ill intent by assigning her a new partner—Shamir had skimped over most personal details, so in Rhea’s eyes, Shamir had lost a business partner in the war. Nothing too hard on a cold-hearted mercenary. But something about Rhea’s smile…

Shamir had given Catherine a discerning glance. In her time in Fódlan, she’d learned one major thing about its people: They gave an obscene amount of focus to meaningless social rankings. Catherine had worn the gritted teeth of a soldier, but the confidence in her shoulders and the ease she took in taking up space hinted at an upbringing far removed from that of the commoners Shamir had most often interacted with. It meant little to Shamir, but she’d noted it nonetheless. She’d see Catherine in combat before long; no use wondering until then whether she could put her money where her mouth was.

Shamir had drummed her fingers along the side of her arm and returned to the conversation. “She did. She’s my employer, so I am contracted to obey her.”

“That’s a cold tone to take.” Catherine had snorted. “What if someone offers you a higher price to take out Lady Rhea herself?”

It hadn’t taken long for Shamir to think about that. “Right now, I owe a debt to the archbishop. But were that offer made once my debt was paid, and the price was right, I would likely accept.”

Catherine had stared at her, horror and something else mingling on her face. She’d opened her mouth to speak, but Shamir had interrupted.

“I have a different sense of duty and morality than you do. It doesn’t mean I lack it altogether.” Shamir had shrugged—her sense of honor differed even from that of many Dagdans, so the reaction she had seen wasn’t a particular shock. Her periphery vision had caught the time in a clock hanging above the entrance, and she’d straightened. “I have things to do now. Alone. I’ll speak to you later.”

She’d walked away without waiting for a response, unaware then of the insurmountable chasm already forming between them.

*

When Shamir opens her eyes, it’s to see a dark night sky spread out before her, sprawling and lacking any stars. At first, with naught but inky blackness above her, she can’t help but wonder if the Church’s assurances of a world after death, something most Dagdans never put much thought into, had been true after all. It’s not an unsettling thought; in Shamir’s line of work, she’d expected to face it sooner. The last thing she can remember is falling to a Demonic Beast. Not the end Shamir would have chosen for herself, but then, she’d never willingly choose any end either, just accept it with open arms. She’s a realist mercenary, not an active seeker of death.

Shamir closes her eyes again and tilts her head to the side. If there is nothing here to await her, then she may as well rest, listening to the distant rumbling of what seems like a stream in the distance.

Before Shamir can question that any further, pain surges through her. She winces at the burning sensation in her side and the throbbing behind her temple, making the sky above seem to pulse and fill with dots when her eyes half-open again. A chill is soon to follow, seeping into her bones.

Any thought of her status is dismissed. Unless Shamir is in a very specific kind of afterlife, she doubts she’s dead. As she blinks, she becomes aware of the solid weight of the earth beneath her, the awkward positioning of her limbs, the hard rocky ground supporting her head, a murky shape sitting beside her.

Groggy, Shamir makes to sit up. A firm hand to the stomach nudges her back down.

“Sit _still_ , dammit,” snaps a familiar voice, and Shamir’s startled gaze focuses to find Catherine, even more haggard than when Shamir had seen her last. “You’ll start bleeding again.”

“Again?” Shamir squints for a moment before registering the epicenter of her pain: Her side, shirt stained and slicked to her skin with now-dried blood. “Oh. How—?”

Catherine ignores the unfinished question in favor of pressing a warm hand to Shamir’s wound—a _very_ warm hand. By nature, Shamir has always striven to take as few hits as possible, but she knows the sensation of white magic all too well. And the sound—Catherine is muttering something under her breath, the incantation for a basic healing spell, muddled with the pronunciation of one who has only seen it written but still accurate enough to work. Her palm glows against Shamir’s abdomen. Healing often works better from a distance, not direct contact, but somehow that feels in poor faith to mention now.

“I didn’t know you knew white magic,” Shamir grunts out. “Or _any_ magic.”

Catherine’s expression gives a bitter twist, face warped into something ugly by the harsh juxtaposition of the glow of her magic and the dark night sky. “A lot can change in five years.”

Yes, Shamir supposes, it certainly can. She shuts her eyes. Faith-based magic, paradoxically, hurts—or at least it does to Shamir, who clenches her jaw as energy flows from Catherine to her, burning almost more than the numbed injury had to begin with. After a moment, it abates to a dull throb. No less irritating, but less immediate.

“There.” Catherine peels her hand from Shamir’s side and draws back. The pain eases once the pressure is removed. “That should be good for now. I’m all out of casting energy, anyway, so it’ll have to be.” She drags a hand—black-fingered and smeared with dried blood—through her tousled hair, further messing up the already askew strands.

Any expression of gratitude Shamir could give would undoubtedly put her under more scrutiny than if she were to stay silent. She keeps her jaw shut and returns her gaze to the sky.

It isn’t that much of a surprise that Catherine knows white magic. She’s determined enough that she wouldn’t have been satisfied only honing her existing skills over the course of the war, and her faith has always been stronger than any sort of reason, though Shamir doesn’t doubt her tenacity would allow her to overcome that gap. And, come to think of it, Catherine and Cyril’s recovery had always been faster than Shamir had thought it should have been.

Rationalization aside, Shamir’s thoughts return to her last memories. The last thing she can recall is still collapsing to the ground, poison coursing through her veins and injuries dragging her down.

Shamir clicks her tongue. She can’t sense any toxins now, and she’s never known if Demonic Beast poison works the same as normal ingested poisons, but just in case—

Her stomach clenches. Bile surges up into her mouth, and Shamir lurches to the side to heave into the grass just as Catherine scrambles backward with a startled sound. She stays hunched for a moment, waiting, and then leans back up, panting and wiping her mouth. Ignoring Catherine’s look of shock and disgust, she grabs her canteen and rinses out her mouth as best she can.

“I was poisoned,” is all she says when she’s spit the water out. “And I presume you don’t have any antitoxins.”

Catherine waves her hands. “I’ve got a natural antitoxin right here, don’t I?”

That isn’t worth responding to. Shamir doubts Catherine has the predisposition for a restoration spell, and she’d said herself that she’s run out of spells for the day. It seems late enough that that won’t matter much, but regardless, any chances of Shamir getting any remaining poison out magically are little to none.

She drags herself up to a sitting position, legs folded and elbows resting on her thighs. Catherine’s expression is still wary. Shamir—who already doesn’t worry much, given this isn’t the first time she’s had to rely upon healing magic—braces her weight on the opposite side from her injury.

Though that makes her recall times she’d rather forget. With a grimace, Shamir distracts herself by piecing together what’s going on. She’s been unconscious for several hours judging by the sky. Her eyes dart around their surroundings—the horses and Cyril’s wyvern are off to the side. Catherine and Cyril appear to have set up a makeshift camp, albeit not in an optimal location; they’re a fair bit away from the treeline. Cyril himself is nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” asks Shamir, back to business. “Did you flee from the Demonic Beast? Where’s Cyril?”

“No, we killed it,” says Catherine, to which Shamir blinks. “And he went off with his bow to take care of hunting. I think he just needed a minute, though, so don’t be surprised if he doesn’t bring back anything—he was pretty shaken up over this whole thing.” She gestures toward Shamir’s side.

Shamir tries and fails to process this. “Why didn’t you leave me behind?”

Catherine gives her a look of bewilderment. “What the hell do you mean? You were half-dead.”

“Exactly. Tactically speaking, it would have been wisest to leave me behind either before or after defeating the Demonic Beast.” Shamir’s brow furrows with agitation at how blank Catherine’s expression is. “Especially now. You wouldn’t have had to go to Enbarr. You would have gotten a chance to flee to some remote land and plot your revenge, or whatever it is you have in mind.”

“Shamir—”

“Why,” she interrupts, flat, “did you risk your life and Cyril’s for mine?”

“You—” Catherine’s tone is low and tight, and a deep-seated fire burns in her hard gaze. “Dammit, you always do this. Act like the worst outcome is the most probable and then… well, you don’t _grin_ , but you certainly bear it. And encourage everyone else to not do a thing about it.”

“And you refuse to even consider the concept of loss.” Shamir’s own voice is neutral, the venom on her tongue bitten back. She lowers her head. She’s almost frantic in a way she isn’t often, and she pushes herself to add: “The other morning, you woke before either me or Cyril. You dawdled. You considered leaving, didn’t you?”

Catherine’s jaw goes slack. “You were awake?”

Shamir shifts her gaze to the side. She hadn’t been, but there had been no mistaking the guilty look in Catherine’s eyes when she had. She’s accomplished her task of weaseling out the truth, though, so she makes no move to say so.

“There was no point in going,” Catherine continues, wringing her hands, old scars covered by deep red stains. It hits Shamir that it’s her own blood. Were she anyone but herself, she could perhaps find symbolism in it. “You would have just tracked us down again and dragged us by our ears anyway, wouldn’t you have?”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Shamir before she can contemplate that. “At any rate, this was a different situation. I was injured—in your own words, ‘half-dead.’ Bad enough that if I pulled through, I wouldn’t have been in any state to continue my mission.” She brings her gaze back to Catherine, fixing it on her face. Catherine’s face is unreadable—she has always been someone to wear her heart on her sleeve (minus lingering insecurities; if she didn’t acknowledge them, Shamir had thought her reasoning was, no one else could see them either), but now she wears a mask of subtleties made too intricate for Shamir to intuit her way through by the distance between them. “So why not leave? You would have been spared from both a Demonic Beast attack and the emperor’s judgment.”

She expects it, in the end, to come down to Catherine’s reckless pride. Perhaps some selfish desire to put Shamir in her debt rather than the other way around, to make Shamir go through what she had in Fhirdiad. To prove herself capable of taking down a Demonic Beast on her own. Or something a bit more altruistic—to allow Cyril the chance to contribute.

But, all the more confusing, Catherine’s expression holds no hint of any of those motives. In fact, she seems confused by Shamir’s insistence. “Why? Because—”

The clearing falls dead silent as Catherine’s eyes widen with realization. She shuffles backward on her heels, glancing between Shamir and her bloodstained hands. Horror and surprise fill her face. She mouths a feeble _no_ that doesn’t make it past her lips.

But after a moment’s worth of processing, Catherine is gathering some knightly resolve up from deep within her and saying, head low and voice lower, “Because I trust you.”

Shamir stares. “What?” she asks, so faint it’s almost inaudible.

Catherine scrubs a hand through her hair. When she speaks again, it’s more to herself than to Shamir. “Yeah, I think that’s it. I mean, you almost sacrificed yourself for us, back there with that Demonic Beast. And—a part of me still does hate you.” It shouldn’t sting—Shamir expects and accepts such words from Catherine—but a jolt still goes through Shamir’s side. “You might not have buried the axe in Lady Rhea’s heart yourself, but you helped things get to that point. But,” she adds, shaking her head, “we were _partners_ , Shamir. And I trusted you then—more than I’ve probably trusted anyone in my life.”

“You had to.” Shamir’s lips are numb even as she speaks, not fully processing the words she’s mumbling. “In the context of a partnership, trust is a necessity.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Catherine shrugs. Her blithe treatment of heavy matters, a strategy of avoidance akin to Shamir’s plain acceptance that the worst is almost always to come, has always irritated Shamir. They are opposites in many ways; in this, they’re parallel. “But you never trusted me, did you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Shamir.” Shamir finds herself on the end of a pointed look that is likely belated by this point. “We got along well enough, and we worked well together, but that never meant you trusted me back.”

Shamir pinches the bridge of her nose. “What I told Cyril after those bandits attacked—he’d asked me if I ever trusted you. I answered.” Catherine’s expression doesn’t change, and Shamir sighs. “Have you forgotten already? If you still trust me now, then trust me when I say that I did. I _did_ trust you, Catherine. More than—” She cuts herself off before she can stray too far into the incriminating, but she thinks they both know what’s left unsaid. “I had to, in our circumstances, but I don’t regret it.”

Catherine picks at the seam of her shirt. “You’re the one who told me we shouldn’t trust you now.”

“Suddenly, your memory has improved.” Frustration fills Shamir’s chest—they’re running in circles here, a vicious cycle constraining them. “Why do you trust me now? After everything?”

“Like I said—”

“If the past was a significant factor, you would have left me to die for what I’ve done.”

“What _have_ you done?” snaps Catherine, eyes scalding as she jolts to her feet, unsteady but as broad and powerful as she’s always been. Not that Shamir is intimidated for a second. “Because I don’t think you’ve ever sat down and told me. Just what did you do, Shamir? I want an answer.”

Shamir’s mouth thins into a firm line. “Are you trying to get an apology out of me? I don’t have any regrets.”

“You can’t say that. You told me about your dreams.”

Ah, thinks Shamir, eyes closing. She should have known that would come back to bite her, but Catherine’s tone is no longer angry—it’s confused, bitter, sorrowful, bleeding with every harsh emotion Shamir had tried her best to prevent from getting involved. She should have known, too, that she was a fool to think not letting emotions get involved would work with Catherine.

“I told you that they don’t mean anything.”

“And I think you’re full of shit,” says Catherine with mild resignation.

A rustling sound signifies Catherine sitting back down. The next thing Shamir knows, there’s a hand on her shoulder, and her eyes snap open again to find Catherine sitting right in front of her.

Shamir raises her arm to knock Catherine’s hand away. As Shamir’s wrist collides with hers, Catherine’s hand falls back without protest. The proximity is unsettling, but no more so than the sight of a Demonic Beast in Shamir’s path.

“Answer my questions,” says Shamir, “and I’ll answer yours.” _Now who’s playing a game of twenty questions?_ She leans back, not waiting for so much as a nod from Catherine before adding, “Why do you trust me?”

“ _Goddess_. Hitting hard right off the bat. As usual. I don’t fucking know, all right?” Catherine flings her hands up in the air, arching back to avoid smacking Shamir in the face, though something tells Shamir she’d be tempted to do so and pass it off as an accident. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of how you fought back there. Maybe it’s some sort of fucked up complex about this whole damn fucked up situation. Maybe something Lysithea said last night got to me.”

Shamir wants to ask about that, but knowing Catherine, she would extend Shamir’s proffered terms and take it as an opportunity to ask another unbidden question. She bites the inside of her cheek.

“Maybe it’s fate,” attempts Catherine, but her mouth twitches to the side anyway. “No, fuck that. I just… I trust you. I can’t explain it, and you think I shouldn’t, but I do, and that’s that. Satisfied?”

Shamir’s only answer is a glare. She can’t protest, though—for all intents and purposes, it seems that Catherine is telling the truth and plans on being as stubborn about it as she has everything in her life.

“Your turn.” Catherine sits forward. “Why did you leave?”

“That isn’t what you asked before,” says Shamir, but Catherine doesn’t blink. “I negotiated a contract with Edelgard. That’s all.”

“That’s all? I find that hard to believe.”

“Hard to believe, or hard to accept?”

“What’s the difference?”

Shamir sighs through her nose and chooses not to take that as one of Catherine’s questions. “You trusted Alois. And while he had a personal connection to Byleth, I’m a mercenary.” She’s been stripped of her jacket, she notices—most likely to ensure closer access to her wound—so she tugs at her shirt collar instead. “It was almost a given that I would turn against you someday.”

Catherine scoffs. “It’s a little different when your partner is a turncoat than any other comrade-in-arms. And besides, you owed Lady Rhea.”

“So did you.” Catherine’s gaze doesn’t relent, and Shamir shifts hers upward. “It took me four years, but I paid my debt, as far as I’m concerned. Unlike you, I didn’t consider it an honor to serve her—I was indebted to her. While I respected her enough as my employer, I wouldn’t stretch that so far as to call it trust.”

“She took you in,” argues Catherine. “Out of the goodness of her heart, she—”

“How can you know that?” Shamir tilts her head back down. “If you’ll recall, you weren’t privy to Rhea’s every decision and the motivations behind them.” Catherine and Cyril’s many rants about Rhea’s favoritism of Byleth run through her mind, amusing at the time and wince-worthy when looking back now, seeing the pained look on Catherine’s face, the sense of inferiority beneath Cyril’s actions.

“I—” Catherine looks down. “I don’t, really. But why else would she have helped you? Why else—” She doesn’t finish, but Shamir can just about hear the rest of her sentence: _Why else would she have helped me?_

“I can’t answer that. No one can, with her dead.” It’s cruel, perhaps, but it’s the truth, and sometimes—oftentimes—the truth is cruel.

Catherine rubs her temple, inadvertently smearing blood across her skin. “It’s just so damn unfair. If she and Edelgard had just _talked—_ ”

“Would you have wanted to speak to one another in that situation? You yourself didn’t want to hear Edelgard out, if I might remind you.” Shamir keeps her tone measured despite the frustration building in her chest—Catherine really has always been like this. Prideful and loyal to a fault. “By the time we laid siege to Fhirdiad, Edelgard wanted to solve things one-on-one, without endangering the townspeople. Rhea was the one who set fire to Fhirdiad. Edelgard’s prior decision to reunify Fódlan by force wasn’t fair either, true, but—”

“Goddess, you sound just like Lysithea. I get it, all right?” snaps Catherine. “I was an idiot for ever trusting her, and I’m an even bigger idiot for trusting you, too. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Of course she would take it that way. “No. I don’t think it’s wrong to trust,” says Shamir, well aware she’s making a hypocrite of herself. “But I think it’s right to think things through, too.”

Her tone is heavy-handed, though it falls short of an outright plea. Catherine stares at her in silence, her fingers twisting together even with every other part of her body still and rigid. Then, abrupt, she stands.

“I’m going to go find Cyril,” she says without looking at Shamir. “Yell if you start bleeding again or anything.”

Shamir lets her go without a word. She doesn’t bother to point out the Cyril-shaped shadow darting off behind a tree nearby, slipping and cracking a twig on his way. Catherine will see—or hear—him soon enough. The last sparks of their argument hang in the air, pathetic and roundabout. Their relationship is too splintered by this point, a branch snapped into halves one too many times to be regrown to its original state. Shamir lets her words and Catherine’s run through her mind.

Once Catherine’s steps—not heavy enough to be stomps but not light enough to be regular steps—have faded, Shamir forces her thoughts to calm. She shuts her eyes, slackens her posture, and slows her breathing. A clear mind is key right now.

If only Catherine had ever been any good at meditation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to bypass the vomiting scene, skip to the dialogue two lines after "Shamir clicks her tongue" (summary of the paragraph in between: shamir throws up to rid herself of any poison remaining in her system, which, yes, is definitely medically unsound and should NOT be tried at home but seems reasonable for shamir).
> 
> also, worth noting: i couldn't find any online references to the timeline notes found in the in-game character files and didn't want to replay through enough of gd/bl to get access to that again, so flashbacks might get a little wonky wrt shamir and cyril's ages. whoops!
> 
> anyway... thanks, as always, for reading! _next time_ : a step and an interruption. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	10. but then again, so are you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter ten: off-screen manipulation/exploitation, briefly mentioned violence/death (including suicide along the lines of honor suicides/cyanide pills), and like two super mild weed jokes.
> 
> chapter title from "the lion's roar" by first aid kit. enjoy!

As soon as Catherine gets up, Cyril is already turning on his heel and rushing back off into the trees, swearing under his breath and hoping, to presumably no avail, that it’ll be lost in the wind.

Without a doubt, Catherine will follow. Cyril is fast, but not enough to outpace Thunder Catherine on a normal day. This, however, is not a normal day, Cyril’s speed increased with panic and Catherine’s decreased with the state of dismay she seems to have been thrown into after her and Shamir’s exchange—so Cyril, to his surprise, manages to weave through the trees without drawing Catherine’s attention.

A combination of stealth and speed had been ingrained into him long ago, but he’d never made much use of it, only falling back on it while hunting. Now, it seems more helpful than ever. Cyril keeps his breathing still even as he darts between trees, fast but not fast enough to make himself a target. He’s not trying to run away from Catherine forever—just to allow themselves a few moments to cool down. Catherine, he thinks with a wince, will definitely need it.

He emerges at the cusp of the wooded area to find a small stream running across the land. Cyril entertains the thought of fishing with his bow and arrow, but between the narrowness of the stream and the shadow of the moon overhead, there are no shapes to be seen beneath the water.

With a sigh, he slumps down in the grass and folds his legs. No use doing anything but waiting for Catherine to find him.

He isn’t able to sit still for long. Catherine and Shamir’s conversation rattles through his mind. Cyril seems to have picked up an unfortunate habit of inadvertent eavesdropping as of late—he hadn’t meant to overhear their exchange, but he’d returned to camp at the wrong time. He’s at least glad that Shamir is all right (or at least conscious), though that feeling in and of itself pumps guilt anew through him.

He doesn’t trust her. Not like Catherine has apparently grown to again—or maybe she never stopped, thinks Cyril, remembering that faraway look she’d get in her eyes during strategy meetings. It’s hard to think of it as anything but a betrayal to Lady Rhea, but—

 _But what?_ Cyril’s mind prompts, something at the very back of his thoughts. He reaches for it, desperate, only for his fingers to close over nothing, gripping a single tuft of a feather as the thought flies away.

Frustration buzzes through Cyril. He flicks a pebble into the water and watches it skid across the surface before sinking to the bottom.

Cyril had only half-believed Shamir when she’d said, weeks back now, she had trusted Catherine years ago—her answer came days after his question, and she hadn’t clarified her meaning. Now, after hearing the raw tone of her voice, seeing the tension in her shoulders… he doesn’t know how he could have ever doubted it.

When Shamir was still around him, Cyril had been young and busy enough that he hadn’t paid much attention to the dynamics of the adults around him. All he’d really processed was that they were too caught up in themselves and rankings. But if he looks back now at her and Catherine’s exchanges—

Cyril shakes his head and takes a deep breath. He’s never been good at meditation, too distracted by all of the things he could be doing instead, so he doesn’t bother meditating. He just—sits. He watches the starless sky, the rustling trees, the rippling of the creek as it flows past. He listens for the distant calling of a nightingale in the distance. Nothing does anything to calm his errant pulse nor the worry, over everything and nothing all at once, clustered at the edge of his mind, but focusing on his surroundings lets that fade into the background, at least, becoming less omnipresent and more plainly annoying.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when the ground behind him creaks with the unmistakable weight of another person. When nothing like the metallic _swish_ of a weapon or the crackling of magic energy follows, Cyril’s shoulders slacken.

He still makes no move to stand. After a moment, Catherine calls with a weary voice that says she already knows what he heard, “Cyril.”

Cyril adjusts the quiver at his side. “I’m here,” he says, eyes running along the curve of the stream.

As Catherine’s footfalls approach, Cyril slumps forward further. His fingers itch to have something to fidget with, but now feels like a weird time to bring up his prayer beads to Catherine, so he just twists his hands together in his lap. She stops beside him but doesn’t make to sit.

“I didn’t catch anything.” He’d run across a couple of rabbits, but he’d been too slow on the draw, and they’d hopped off.

“I figured,” says Catherine, though still with an undercurrent of disappointment. “We’ve got enough to last us until we get back into decent hunting territory, I presume.”

“Right.” Cyril fights back a yawn. He’s been more tired than this and still gotten loads of work done—he can handle a short walk back to their admittedly lackluster camp. For some reason, though, his legs refuse to let him up. With a frustrated exhale, he adds, “How’s Shamir?”

“How much did you hear?”

“Just the last bit.”

Catherine’s gaze burns into the back of his neck. “Do you, uh, have any questions?”

“I’m not a kid, Catherine,” says Cyril with a bitterness that Catherine frankly doesn’t deserve. He bites his cheek. “Sorry. I don’t.” It’s only half-true. “Are you ready to go back now?”

“She’ll probably be sleeping by now,” says Catherine, though they both know that even in (or perhaps because of) the state she’s in, Shamir will insist on staying up for at least a couple more hours. “I guess so. What about you? You wanna skip rocks or something?”

“Skip rocks?”

Catherine makes a low sound of surprise. “You’ve never—okay, next pond we find, I’m gonna teach you how to skip rocks. You’re pretty dexterous, and you’ve got really good depth perception, so you should be good at it.”

Any pride Cyril might have felt at the compliment is diminished by the late hour and the tension hanging above them. With a grimace, he gathers himself and brings himself to his feet, tired legs threatening to give out beneath him—he can almost hear Catherine preventing herself from leaning out to help him, but he steadies himself on his own. He takes a sharp breath and turns to face Catherine.

The amount of blood covering her armor startles him, though it doesn’t make him as nauseous as it might have a decade ago. None of it seems to be hers, but the combination of still-bright maroon blood from the Demonic Beast and dried blood from Shamir isn’t any less unnerving. Mostly, all Cyril can think is, _She looks tired_. It’s a more accurate reflection of himself than looking into the water.

Cyril can’t quite make his feet move. “Catherine,” he chances before he can talk himself out of it, “do you think Lady Rhea was a bad person?”

Catherine stares back. A thousand different emotions flicker through her eyes before she scratches the back of her head. It feels remiss to point out the blood on her hands.

It takes her a long stretch of time to come up with an answer. “I think she was a person,” is what she says in the end, scarred lips twisting downward. “Not completely good or bad. Regardless of how I loved her, she was… a person, with all of the ugly bits that come along with it. I don’t know.”

Cyril recognizes the refrain from Catherine’s conversations with Lysithea and Shamir. The former feels like it was weeks ago—in reality, Cyril realizes with a wince, it’s been a day, give or take a couple of hours.

He’s not satisfied with the explanation. Maybe he is still too much of a kid, clinging with petulant desperation to beliefs he’d held for most of his life, but up until several months ago, Cyril’s entire life had revolved around Lady Rhea. He had adored her—he still does. He had loved her too, he wants to say—in a far different sense than Catherine had, but Lady Rhea had saved them both.

Maybe, in the end, that had been the problem.

Recalling Shamir’s words from years back, Cyril mumbles, “Nothing is all black or all white.”

“Sometimes—” Catherine starts, but she stops before she can add more, only looking away with a heavy sigh. “No,” she says, eyes closed. “It really isn’t. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully accept that.”

Unfulfilled and uncomfortable, they walk back through the trees in silence.

*

Shamir stays up half the night watching for danger, though she knows well that the most dangerous things to her, after they return to the camp, are sleeping not fifteen feet away. She’s no longer in pain, at least, ignoring the dull ache in her side without frequent (and as of now inaccessible) healing. She’s dealt with worse. It still takes her nearly half an hour to find a comfortable sleeping position when at last she brings herself to lie down.

Even then, her eyes stay on the sky. Her last conversation—upon returning, Catherine and Cyril had said nothing—replays itself in her mind. Catherine’s newfound skill in white magic is the least of her problems. But Catherine’s trust in her, inexplicable even to Catherine—

Ridiculous, Shamir thinks, pinching her eyes shut. But that’s Catherine, in the end. Reckless, straightforward, and earnest. A contradiction in and of herself.

It would be easier if they’d met in another time. Maybe they wouldn’t have even interacted had they not been forced to under a Rhea-assigned partnership, different as they are in background and personality, but perhaps that, too, would have been easier. If Shamir had never known the sound of Catherine’s laughter, the strength of her person and sword alike, the hurt in her eyes as she stared across a battlefield lit aflame by the one she trusted most—

But this is another useless what-if, proving nothing but the numb unhappiness lurking deep within Shamir. So she breathes out and allows unconsciousness to claim her.

It still takes some time, between the unease on her mind and the discomfort in her side, and when Shamir wakes early in the morning, her couple of hours of sleep feel like nothing more than a blink. She shakes the lack of true rest from her eyes and rouses Catherine and Cyril when the sun’s glare begins to hurt.

Their morning routine is tenser and more clipped than usual. They navigate without bumping elbows only because they’re trying so hard to stay out of each other’s line of sight that they steer out of the way altogether.

Over breakfast (meager fungi and meat from what they have remaining), Shamir clears her throat to rid herself of a lump. She’s grateful when her voice doesn’t shake, though it is still somewhat hoarse. “With any luck, we’ll be crossing the Great Bridge of Myrddin and heading into Empire territory today, as I had planned for yesterday. Our path from here on out is significantly more straightforward, but we must still remain vigilant. We’ll stop through Aegir territory in several days, and it’ll be almost straight to Enbarr from there.”

An easy trek; boring, even. From the grim looks on both of their faces, Catherine and Cyril hear what Shamir tactfully leaves unspoken: _If we survive that long._

Catherine delivers a cautious healing spell to Shamir’s wound, not staying a word as she crouches and lowers her hands. All it really does is numb things for the time being, but Shamir can almost feel her skin knitting itself back together, natural process eased along by magic. Not a word is exchanged of the night before.

They set off before long, air easing as the conversations of last night become another whisper of the past. Shamir adds another weight to her shoulders and bears it with the staunch neutrality Catherine had accused her of facing the worst outcomes with. People change as the world does, but some things are intrinsic. Shamir has worn this nonchalance so long she’s not sure how to let go of it now.

Their path is clean and simple—Catherine makes sure to point out the direction they’d left the Demonic Beast’s corpse in, and Shamir stops by to harvest what materials she can salvage while Catherine and Cyril look on with respectful disgust. The poison will have little to no effect now, but she bottles some from its massive fangs nonetheless. Nothing else surges out to attack them.

They press on. Crossing the Bridge of Myrddin is easy enough. Catherine and Cyril pause for a moment of grief for Judith von Daphnel, whom Shamir would have liked to have on her side as well, what with her cunning, prowess in battle, and spiraling network of spies that rivaled even House Vestra’s. A powerful enemy; an even more powerful ally.

But she wouldn’t have let herself be taken alive, and that, too, Shamir understands. She has never possessed a sense of honor and pride to the extent that some Dagdans might—as told in many stories of warriors slitting her own throats or bursting poison capsules beneath their tongues to prevent themselves from being taken prisoner—but that’s not to say she has none.

Shamir’s eyes flicker, however brief, over Catherine. That is, in the end, the main issue between them: That neither can set aside her pride enough to make room for the other’s.

As they take their first step onto Empire territory, Shamir diverts her thoughts. All three of them take a breath. They’re in the home stretch now, and now that stealth is not of the utmost importance on this familiar ground, Shamir gets onto her horse and waits for Catherine and Cyril to follow suit.

On they rush. The air is cool against Shamir’s cheeks. They’re not yet far into the Empire, but it already feels much different than any part of Leicester or Faerghus had. It feels, in a way it certainly shouldn’t, like home. Through skirmishes, other excursions, and tactical meetings, Shamir has mapped the majority of the Adrestian Empire out in her mind, memorizing its complex borders and geographic features. She’s more familiar with it than either of the former nations of Fódlan, and that isn’t likely to change.

Like everything else, she’ll have to leave it behind before long. _Have to_ may be the wrong set of words, but Shamir has never felt comfortable staying in one place too long, and she’s already roamed Fódlan long enough to be uncomfortable.

She shuts her eyes as pain pulses behind her temples, a physical reminder of how unnecessary these concerns are now. Her legs tighten around her horse’s sides.

“Shamir?” comes Catherine’s voice to her side, and when Shamir opens her eyes, she’s somehow unsurprised to find her and Cyril’s horse pulling alongside hers. “Are you—”

“Let’s keep going,” says Shamir.

She pushes onward, and though there’s a beat of silence, she faces no resistance before Catherine and Cyril follow.

They’re heading right into the center of Bergliez territory. Of course, they’ll avoid Fort Merceus—while it isn’t as heavily protected as it had been during the war, Shamir suspects that only disaster would come of stopping by. The current Count Bergliez is not his father, as different from Caspar as he must be, but she doesn’t much want to interact with the heir to the title of the one who had led armies to destroy Shamir’s homeland. She has no particular love lost for Dagda, but it isn’t that easy to let go of the war, either.

They carry on with no more conversations. It starts raining the second they set foot (rather, hoof) on Gronder Field, which is empty and barren. Somehow, it feels fitting—it had marked clashes over a thousand years gone, along with peaceful mock battles amongst the houses of Garreg Mach, never quite _harmonious_ but not actively warring. It only makes sense that the sky, too, would cry for the historic blood shed upon these plains.

Shamir wonders how deep that blood has sunk into the grass here. No further than it has into her own hands, she thinks. She pushes her horse forward without waiting for her side to sting again.

She has, after all, no need for these thoughts.

*

As a general rule, Catherine had tried not to visit the infirmary. Her fighting style was reckless but not _that_ reckless, and the infirmary reminded her of the inevitability of death and injury not only in combat but from everyday occurrences. The shadow of illness, the stench of blood and antiseptic, the overall sense of sterility and loss—it had always been too much for Catherine to deal with.

But under Lady Rhea’s orders, there had been little else she could do but duck in this once. She’d been told to locate some healing herbs. A menial task, not one Catherine often undertook, but who was she to question Lady Rhea’s judgment? Even if she’d wondered intermittently why Manuela couldn’t retrieve them—or even Lady Rhea, since the infirmary was but a hallway’s distance from her—Catherine had been nothing but devoted. She’d taken on the task with her head bent and a hand over her heart, promising she wouldn’t let Lady Rhea down. (A bit of a dramatic response, she’d known, but that was Catherine.)

Once she’d gotten some spare time—easy enough, with her partner almost always off on missions alongside Their Professorness and their flock of Black Eagles—she’d made the detour. It’d been a quick enough trip: Up the stairs, down the hall, into the closed door.

Perhaps, Catherine had mused along her way, Lady Rhea was throwing in some variety to keep her from getting bored. She hadn’t wanted to sign on as a mentor to the Black Eagles alongside Shamir, so she’d been shafted with far more solo missions as of late. The constant cycle of training and fighting had become monotonous, though Catherine enjoyed it enough to not complain. Yes, Catherine had reasoned, that was just the sort of thing Lady Rhea would do.

With that justification behind her, Catherine had a smile on her face as she pushed open the infirmary door.

She’d then paused in the doorway. Rather than Manuela, inside she’d found two students: Linhardt, asleep (though breathing shallowly enough that it was hard to notice if Catherine didn’t look or listen close enough) in the only occupied bed, and Caspar, sitting at his side in a chair that looked like it’d been dragged from another room. They were good enough kids that Catherine hadn’t turned on her heel, but it’d been a damn near thing.

As the door had cracked open, Caspar had looked up. “Oh—hi, Catherine,” he’d said, voice loud but lower than usual. His gaze, flashing with that determination they often did around her, had flickered over to Linhardt. “He’s sleeping, and honestly I don’t think he’ll wake up for another couple hours, but Professor Manuela said to keep our voices down anyway.”

“I see,” Catherine had said, careful to keep her voice quiet. “Is he injured?” There was, she had to admit, something odd about how insistent Lady Rhea was on sending students—teenagers, most of them—into battles that should have been handled by the knights.

To her relief, Caspar had shaken his head. “Nope. He was helping Professor Manuela out with the healing, and I guess he just got overwhelmed? I dunno. Magic is all a blur to me.”

“That makes two of us.” Catherine had tugged at the lapels of her overcoat. “How much healing did he have to do?”

“I dunno about that either. I just got here a little bit ago—the professor’s lecture went on for _ever_ today, and I had to take notes for Linhardt too, except—” Caspar had gotten a sheet of parchment covered in doodles out of his pocket and presented it to Catherine with a sheepish grin. “I’m not great at taking notes other people can read.”

“…Can _you_ read those?”

“Uh, yeah.” He’d scoffed, then flipped the paper around so he could read it. His eyes had flickered up and down a few times before he’d looked back up. “Er. I was a little distracted today.”

Catherine had followed his gaze back to Linhardt, who’d looked a little like a corpse—face robbed of color, hands folded in his lap over the sheets, chest rising and falling slower than seemed natural. She’d seen him fall asleep in about every area of the monastery, even somehow standing up, but she’d never seen him look so, well, awful. “I get it. Listen, do you know where Manuela keeps her herbs?”

“Herbs?” Caspar had raised his eyebrows. “Like—” he’d raised a pair of finger quotes “— _herbs_ , or—?”

“Medicinal herbs,” Catherine had clarified, hearing the double entendre as soon as she said it and suppressing a wince. At Caspar’s blank expression, she’d added, “Never mind. I’ll find them. Just pretend like I’m not here.”

“I think that’ll be kinda hard to do,” Caspar had said, but Catherine had ignored him as she’d headed over to Manuela’s shelves.

Manuela, she’d soon realized, was something of a slob. None of her containers of herbs—of which there were many—had labels, making Catherine’s mission (murky to begin with) all the more difficult. She’d rifled through rows of half-empty jars with no luck. If only Lady Rhea had described the herbs she had been looking for in greater detail…

“What are you looking for?” a mild voice had said, quiet, and Catherine had almost jumped out of her skin until she’d recognized it as Linhardt’s voice. She’d spun on her heel to see him still sitting with his eyes closed and looking dead to the world.

Caspar had been no less shocked—he’d jumped up, knocking his chair to the ground behind him, with a shout of, “Linhardt! You’re up!”

Linhardt had groaned. “Not so loud, please,” he’d said, voice sounding far too alert for his apparent physical state. He’d moved one hand to rub at his temple. “My head is throbbing. It’s already so bright in here.”

“Oh! Right,” Caspar had said in as far from a whisper as possible.

With a visible wince, Linhardt had ignored him and said, “You’re looking for herbs, right, Catherine? What kind?”

“Uh,” Catherine had said, thoughts stalled by the fact that she was having a conversation with Linhardt that didn’t at least in part revolve around her Crest or Relic. “I don’t know what they’re called or what they look like, but they’re supposed to relieve stress and inspire a sense of calm and warmth. They dissolve in tea.”

“Oh, so _herbs_ ,” Caspar had said.

“Try the shelf in the upper left corner of the room,” Linhardt had suggested. Catherine hadn’t moved, already standing there. “The third row from the bottom. The second, third, and fourth jars from the right.”

Catherine had knelt to find three jars filled with varying amounts of what appeared to be the same herb, a frail green thing, though in Catherine’s eyes, most of these herbs looked the same. Hopefully these were what Lady Rhea wanted, she’d thought. She’d grabbed a jar stuffed almost to the tip and straightened back up with a grateful nod over her shoulder. Linhardt still hadn’t opened his eyes, so she’d added, “Thanks.”

“If you want to thank me, close the blinds.” Linhardt had sniffed. “I don’t know whose idea it was to promote sunlight as a universal way to recover from one’s exhaustion and injuries. It’s making my head throb.”

Ignoring his bitter mumbling, Catherine had obliged and drawn the curtains. Save for what little daylight still streamed through, the room had been bathed with darkness, prompting a grateful sigh from Linhardt.

Catherine had rattled her jar. “These _are_ the right herbs, yeah?”

“I guess you’ll find out. Without a name, it’s difficult to tell, but those ones most closely match your description.” Linhardt had paused to yawn. “Professor Manuela doesn’t have a filing system, either, so I’ve had to learn the locations by ear. At least there isn’t anything too dangerous in here.”

Caspar had shot a pointed look at the sword strapped to Catherine’s hip, though his admiring eyes had made it difficult to take it seriously, as had the fact that Linhardt’s eyes still weren’t open. Catherine had taken it and resolved to write Manuela an I.O.U. note later.

“See you later, Catherine,” Caspar had said as she’d stepped toward the door. “Good luck on your mission! I hope we can work together sometime.”

“Sure,” Catherine had said, though so long as Caspar remained in the Black Eagles, she’d doubted it. She’d paused for a moment. “Tell Ferdinand I wish him good luck in the White Heron Cup, by the way. I hear it’s going to be real competitive this year.”

There had been a tugging sensation in Catherine’s gut, like this was the calm before the storm, but she’d dismissed it as she’d turned with the herbs tucked against her chest.

*

As they delve deeper into Bergliez territory, following the path of the Airmid River with some deviation, the rain lets up. Catherine, who’d had to feel the dried blood in her hair drip down her neck (aggravating but relieving, given that it’s getting out and not dripping onto Cyril but she has to feel it like this; she’ll just be happy when she gets to take a real bath), is grateful. It seems to ease their horses too. The sky is clearer, and by extension, so is the path ahead.

Shamir is stiffly upright and as silent as the grave ahead of them. She doesn’t seem to be in any more pain than she should be, but Catherine’s healing magic hadn’t done the best of jobs, and she knows Shamir will pretend like nothing is happening even if she’s in unspeakable pain.

For now, Catherine supposes she’ll have to trust Shamir to let her know if she needs anything. That trust tastes odd in her mouth, but it’s an undeniable truth.

The silence persists into the afternoon, throughout which they weave across the land, following Shamir’s stoic lead. Their journey is uneventful until the cusp of evening. They’re just making their way to the edge of Bergliez territory when Shamir stops, shoulders taut, head twisting as though she hears something in the distance. Catherine halts their horse and twists to face Cyril. He’s looking back at her with the same confusion, head tilted to listen intently.

Then, a voice cuts through the tension: “Shamir! Shamir, is that you?”

Painstakingly slow, Shamir turns, and Catherine follows her gaze to a carriage ambling along the path toward them. A head with a shock of short, messy blue hair is leaning up from the front. One tan arm waves back and forth while the other elbows the half-asleep figure to the side.

It doesn’t take long for Catherine to recognize them: Caspar and Linhardt. They’d been at Fhirdiad, stalwart companions to their emperor to the end, though they hadn’t come as close to her as certain other Black Eagles. She’s already startled to hear Caspar’s deeper voice, though she’s unsurprised to see him just as hyperactive and Linhardt just as sleepy as they had been over five years ago.

With a barely audible sigh, Shamir waits for the carriage’s approach. Caspar leaps forward as they get closer. Catherine steers her and Cyril’s horse and Cyril’s wyvern behind Shamir, aware that this won’t hide them from view but wanting to take any possible precaution.

Shamir dismounts when Caspar runs up. “Caspar,” she says in greeting, shielding her eyes from the red glow of the setting sun. “I would have thought you’d be halfway across Fódlan by now.”

“We have been!” is Caspar’s cheerful response. “And back again! It’s good to see you, Shamir!”

Without hesitation, he, brilliant grin stretching across his face, sweeps Shamir into his arms. It’s almost impressive how neutral Shamir’s face is despite the clear discomfort in her shoulders—she doesn’t seem upset or irritated, only surprised. She doesn’t reciprocate, but she does allow a severe nod once Caspar puts her down.

“How have you been?” says Caspar, giving Shamir’s shoulders one last firm pat. His gaze darts behind her to settle on Catherine and Cyril, but all they get is a startled yet respectful nod. “Did you get my note? I was pretty sure it was Hubert’s messenger, but—”

“I did. We’ve been avoiding merchants, but the thought was appreciated.”

Caspar droops. “Aw, that’s too bad. Maybe you’ll be able to use it later, right? If you’re ever in the Leicester Alliance again, you know?”

“Right.” Shamir’s thin lips show the low probability of that.

Caspar, though, doesn’t seem to care, already moving onto the next topic. “Me and Linhardt have been having the best time—right, Lin?” He glances over his shoulder, where Linhardt, now the sole leader of the carriage, offers only a slight nod. “We’ve been traveling around for a couple of weeks now, me and Linhardt and Bernadetta. She’s recording everything about our journey to put into a real novel someday! She’s a really good writer, you know.”

A _thud_ comes from inside the carriage, followed by a sharp: “Caspar! I was trying to lay low! But now that you said that… um, I’m here too.” A purple-haired girl, grown taller and bolder in the years since Catherine had last spoken to her but still unmistakable as Bernadetta von Varley, steps out. She’s clutching a book to her chest, but she’s not quite the shrinking wallflower she’d once been. As Cyril had learned the hard way. “Hi, Shamir.”

Shamir crosses her arms. “Hello, Bernadetta.”

Bernadetta’s grip on her book tightens. Timid but firm, she adds, “Did you get the flower I sent you too?”

Without missing a beat, Shamir reaches into one of the many pockets on her jacket to pull out a small daisy, flattened but bright. “Pressing flowers is an interesting tradition,” she notes. “I’ve never seen it in person.”

“Oh, you should try it sometime! Here, I can—” In the middle of offering her book to Shamir, Bernadetta freezes, finally looking up and seeing Catherine and Cyril. The air stands still for a moment before she backs up. Shock, confusion, and relief all seem to be warring for a place in her expression. “Oh. Um. You guys are—okay? You’re… with Shamir?”

“Shamir is undoubtedly on some sort of mission for Hubert,” says Linhardt, eyes lidded and little emotion in his voice. “That must involve these two. It’s not too much of a surprise that they’re alive, is it? Hi, by the way.”

Catherine can do little else but raise a limp hand in greeting. Bernadetta, on the other hand, takes a shaky breath.

“I’m—I’m glad to see that you’re all okay,” she says, forcing a smile. Her voice lilts up and down, from shrill to even and back again just like that, facial conflict evident here too. “Um, how’s your wyvern doing, Cyril?”

Cyril’s brow furrows with bemusement. “She’s doing okay now, but she took a pretty bad fall,” he says, leaning over to place a hand on her neck. “She’s been able to fly a little bit, but not for very long. I dunno if she’ll ever be able to for long periods of time again.”

“Oh no!” Bernadetta clasps both hands over her mouth. Her eyes brim with tears, but she blinks them away. “I’m so sorry, I—you’ve all been through so much. I’m really sorry.”

Cyril doesn’t respond to that aside from dropping his chin and looking away. Catherine shifts slightly in front of him.

Bernadetta’s hands fold at her waist. “I—I don’t think an apology will ever completely work,” she confesses. “And it definitely won’t make up for everything that’s happened. So I just, um—I really hope you and your wyvern are able to get better. And you too, Catherine.” She adds this with a somewhat sheepish look, mousiness emphasized by the awkwardness with which she cuts her gaze in Catherine’s direction.

“Yeah,” says Cyril after a long moment, during which Bernadetta looks steadfast but still somewhat ready to burst into tears. “So do I.”

With a relieved exhale, Bernadetta nods and collapses onto the seat beside Linhardt. That settled, she flips open her book and starts sketching something.

Caspar clears his throat. “Where are you guys headed?” he asks Shamir, diverting the conversation back toward her. She’s watched Bernadetta and Cyril’s exchange with a neutral expression, but it’s not like Catherine hasn’t noticed the proximity of her hand to her lance. She doesn’t think she wants to know what Shamir would have done had that conversation gone pear-shaped. “Hubert said you were off on some important, classified mission or some shit, but he wouldn’t say anything else. I guess we know why now.”

Shamir doesn’t bother responding to anything else, just saying, “Enbarr.”

“We started in northern Faerghus,” adds Catherine, figuring there’s nothing too incriminating about her and Cyril’s safehouse.

“Enbarr, huh?” Caspar looks thoughtful for all of twenty seconds before his face falls. “Aw, fuck, we’re going the opposite direction—we just came from Enbarr, ‘cause Bernie just couldn’t resist seeing Her Majesty again.” Behind him, Linhardt snorts and Bernadetta buries her face in her book. “And now we’re heading back up into the Alliance.”

“Is there any particular route you’re following?” asks Shamir.

“Nah, we’re pretty much just going wherever.” Caspar shrugs. “I was gonna suggest we travel together, but I guess if you’re going all the way to Enbarr—”

“We could just go back to Enbarr too,” suggests Linhardt, mild as ever. “Say, Catherine, do you still have Thunderbrand on you?”

Catherine is surprised enough to answer: “Why wouldn’t I? No,” she adds, seeing the glint in his eyes, “you still can’t hold it. Or do anything with it.” She’s never letting her sword go again, let alone to hand it over to a former Black Eagle.

“Yeah, but it’d be boring to just go in circles like that,” says Caspar. “We don’t just wanna wander around the same places all the time, do we?”

“I think I need to wait a while before we go back to Enbarr,” pipes up Bernadetta, red in the ears.

Linhardt raises his already-slack hands. “Fine, I’m outvoted,” he says, not sounding too upset about it. He yawns and leans back in his seat. “Well, with that settled, we’re in quite a hurry. As nice as it has been seeing you all, I imagine you are as well.”

“You could say that,” says Catherine with a glance in Shamir’s direction.

Caspar, for once, takes the hint. He scratches the back of his neck and says, all while Linhardt appears to doze back off, “All right, then. I guess we should get back on track. Sorry we couldn’t stick around longer.”

“It’s more than all right,” says Shamir.

“Well, still, I wanted to hear about how you’ve been doing.” Caspar’s gaze wanders past Shamir to encompass all three of them, and Catherine doesn’t miss the glance he throws toward Thunderbrand. Catherine rests her hand on her scabbard with narrowed eyes. “Oh well. Another time, all right?”

“Another time,” agrees Shamir. As Caspar trots back to the carriage and Bernadetta moves to return to the back, she adds, “Oh, and Leonie was working on a letter for you.”

Bernadetta blinks. “Oh! Did you see her? Well, they must have, Bernie,” she mutters to herself, shaking her head, but a moment later, she lifts her head again, blush creeping into her cheeks. “I’ll look forward to it. I haven’t had much time to write back, but I’ll try to sometime next week—let her know that if you run into her again, okay?”

Since they’re already in Empire territory and won’t be heading back to the Alliance for some time yet (if ever, depending on how their meeting with Edelgard and Hubert goes), Catherine doubts that’ll happen. Shamir only nods. Right—not something that needs to be said, it seems.

“Goodbye,” calls Shamir as she climbs back onto her horse. “And good luck.”

“You too!” Caspar yells back, grin still visible from here.

He and Linhardt, who’s woken back up enough to take up his half of the reins again, steer the carriage back onto the main path. Catherine watches them fade back into the sunset-painted horizon, waving all the while (Linhardt’s motions being far more muted). Behind her, Cyril leans over to stroke his wyvern’s head.

Shamir shakes her head as they get back on track, clearly thinking about the time wasted—but, Catherine notices, her shoulders are looser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my greatest regret about this maintaining some degree of canon compliance was still killing off judith. sorry judith, 'twas not to be.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! _next time_ : a door and a spell. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are, as always, very appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	11. in a place that feels like home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter eleven: off-screen violence and death, character injury.
> 
> chapter title from "umami" by go! child. this one is admittedly one of my favorites -- enjoy!

From Bergliez territory, it should be a fairly direct trip toward the Aegir estate, where Shamir has informed them they’ll be stopping. Being as the route was designed by Shamir (and interrupted by Caspar, Bernadetta, and Linhardt’s unexpected appearance), it isn’t quite as straightforward as Catherine presumes it should be, but with quick movements and measured silence, they make it just as the last rays of the sun are fading.

As it looms in the distance, the Aegir mansion casts a shadow that makes Catherine of all people feel small. It’s even larger than the Ordelia building, towering and impressive in its architecture. It projects an image of strength, but with the sunflowers growing all around the front, warmer energies than the aging Ordelia estate, whose appearance had reflected its history, had possessed contrast that impression. The pride and determination of House Aegir shine through in every aspect of the mansion’s exterior.

Aegir territory runs along the eastern Adrestian coast, and even this far inland, the scent of the sea hangs in the air. She’s never held much love for the water, but she breathes in the salty air like a woman parched anyway.

Mid-approach, they dismount and walk to the front doors. Shamir raises the door knocker, which features an ornate and large design of an eagle’s head, and raps it against the door. The sound echoes for a moment.

“Gee,” mutters Catherine, “I wonder if they heard us.”

“Didn’t you have anything like this back in Charon?” is all Shamir asks, low and not genuinely caustic, but Catherine sputters all the same.

“Well,” she starts, trying to figure out a way to say—without earning one of Shamir’s patented icy looks—that it hadn’t been as loud nor ostentatious, and it’d been shaped like a more respectable lion.

She’s saved from having to answer at all by the door opening. A small girl somewhere in her mid-twenties is the one to greet them. Catherine doesn’t recognize her as a student of the Officers Academy, so she must be the hired help around here, though she looks much less high-strung than House Charon’s workers. She narrows her eyes at the three bloodied, grimy strangers at her employer’s doorstep.

“May I help you?” she says with clear derision, chin lifted. She’s shorter than all three of them, so it doesn’t do much in the effort of intimidation, but Catherine lauds her for the attempt.

Shamir folds her arms. “We’re here to see Duke Aegir.”

The girl looks them over, then crosses her arms right back. “I’ll need to see some form of identification.”

“Oh, please, Miss Lili, at ease,” says a voice from behind her, and Catherine, Cyril, and the girl—Lili—all jump (Shamir does not) as Ferdinand von Aegir himself steps forth. His long, curly hair is tied off in a ponytail that trails down his shoulder. A wooden cane supports his left side. He acknowledges them all with a laidback smile, head inclined toward Shamir. “Shamir, it is good to see you again,” he says before turning back to Lili. “These are our guests for the night, Miss Lili.”

Lili turns, giving Catherine a good glimpse of her shock before she does. “The ones Marquis Vestra informed us about, sir?”

“The very same,” assures Ferdinand, and though with one more (admittedly deserved) suspicious glance in Catherine, Cyril, and Shamir’s direction, Lili nods and slips back into the hall. Ferdinand steps up in her place to shake Shamir’s hand with polite fervency. “Your journey must have been quite the ordeal.”

Shamir shrugs, which is so much of an understatement that Catherine snorts and Cyril grimaces.

Ferdinand raises a well-groomed eyebrow. “You must tell me about it over dinner, it seems,” he says, brushing his hair off his shoulder. “In the meantime, why do not you step inside?”

In lieu of speaking aloud, Shamir beckons to the horses and wyvern still hovering at their backs.

“Hm? Oh!” If Ferdinand’s expression had been bright before, it all but lights up when he glances behind them for the first time. “And you have brought your horses. Tell me, Shamir, how is dear Chestnut faring?”

Cyril blinks a few times, seeming just as awestruck as Catherine is. She mouths _Chestnut?_ at him only to receive a blank-eyed headshake in response.

“Fine, as far as I can tell,” says Shamir, ever unfazed. “She’s a well-bred and well-trained horse.”

“Indeed she is,” says Ferdinand, preening as he gives the horse—Chestnut, it seems—a good pat on the snout. His gaze passes to Catherine and Cyril’s horse. “I do not recognize this one, however. Where did you happen upon him?”

“Leonie gave him to us.”

“Ah, I see. Not of as significant a bloodline as Lady Chestnut’s here—” he scratches her ears “—but no less beautiful nor any less well-behaved. Leonie takes rather good care of her horses, so that is no surprise. And it seems that your wyvern is recovering quite well.” Ferdinand clears his throat, regaining whatever dignity he has remaining, and nods to the mounts. “Our stables are more than equipped to handle all three of these lovely creatures. Lili, would you mind—?”

In a flash, so fast that Catherine suspects she’d been lurking in the hallway, Lili reappears and elbows through to take the horses by their reins. “Certainly, sir.”

“Normally, I would take care of them myself, just to be certain,” adds Ferdinand while Lili gestures the horses and the wyvern off, the latter giving an imploring glance in Cyril’s direction. “However, for once, I fear that our human guests take precedence.”

“For once,” echoes Cyril in a bemused mutter.

Ferdinand either ignores or doesn’t hear him. “On that note, I shall personally show the three of you to your quarters.”

Shamir lowers her head in an approximation of a bow. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense—it is my pleasure, truly,” says Ferdinand, baring his teeth in a shiny grin. “For one thing, it was a request from Hubert—and for another, you are a very dear friend in and of yourself, Shamir. Not to mention the important quest you have embarked on.”

“Oh.” Shamir picks at her collar, visibly surprised—about which part is unclear, but Catherine can place a bet—but not putting up a fuss. She manages a small laugh. “You sound like Lysithea. Actually, she wanted me to pass on her family’s gratitude for your continued assistance in restoring Ordelia,” she adds, moving on with a metaphorical snap of the fingers.

“Count and Countess Ordelia have already been rather forthcoming with their thanks.” Despite his pleased smile, Ferdinand shakes his head. “I suppose I will have to thank them in earnest when next I head north. Anyway, I do believe we have spent enough time dawdling,” he continues. “Come in, come in.”

Shamir does so readily enough. Exchanging glances among themselves, Catherine and Cyril follow suit. Ferdinand adjusts his grip on his cane as they pass him, and Catherine takes the opportunity to glance at the well-polished suits of armor and paintings lining the walls. Nothing she wouldn’t expect from a stuck-up noble family, though everything seems newer than most of what she’s used to.

Ferdinand notices. “The paintings are my mother’s doing,” he says, gesturing to one depicting a vase of sunflowers. “We needed something to replace the portraits of the past dukes while they were, ah, in storage.”

Catherine raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask. Shamir has stopped at the end of the hall, waiting for them with as neutral an expression as ever.

“Oh, yes—Catherine, before I forget,” calls Ferdinand, and Catherine turns on her heel, hesitant but not one to ignore such a direct summons. Cyril pauses at her side.

“Yes?”

“I have something for you.” With a subtle flair, Ferdinand reaches into his coat—Catherine tenses but forces herself to relax; there are no weapons visible on his person, and he’s not reaching toward any place one would be hidden—and pulls something out of an interior pocket: An envelope sealed with crimson wax. He holds it out to Catherine, who takes it with a questioning look. Ferdinand shuffles his feet under her gaze. “It is from Hubert. Oh, please do not tell me if you are going to dispose of it without reading it,” he adds, raising a hand. “I would prefer to not have to lie to him.”

Catherine turns the envelope in her hand, trying to get a glimpse of the text beneath the bright lighting, but she has no such luck. At the very least, it appears that all that’s inside is a letter. She can only imagine what a letter from Edelgard’s right hand to Lady Rhea’s sworn knight might say.

“Even a lie of omission?” she can’t help but ask.

“Even so.”

The look in Ferdinand’s eyes, loyalty unambiguous, takes her aback. She hadn’t paid much attention to the Black Eagles, busy with her other duties and distracted by pettiness once Shamir joined up with them, but one thing about those academy days that sticks out in her mind is the antagonistic relationship between him and Hubert. It seems time does heal some things.

Catherine tucks the envelope away in her pocket. She’s not sure what she’ll do with it, but she’s not so petulant that she’ll rip it up in front of Ferdinand or anything to that effect. Ferdinand relaxes.

“Very well,” he says with a nod, though Catherine isn’t paranoid enough to suspect that the whole endeavor had been some sort of test. “Come with me, will you not?”

He hurries down the hall before anyone can protest, though Shamir is quick enough to pick up his pace. Catherine and Cyril make quick work of catching up with her.

“Chestnut?” asks Catherine in an undertone, ignoring the envelope weighing a hole in her pocket.

“I didn’t know her name,” says Shamir mildly.

Catherine is almost afraid to ask, but—“Does Ferdinand name all of his horses?”

“Yes, as far as I know. He’ll probably ask after the name of Leonie’s horse as well.” Shamir shakes her head, expression just short of fond, and glances over her shoulder at Cyril, discomfort mingling with any number of other emotions. She adds, not a warning but not exactly anything else either, “He might ask the wyvern’s name, too.”

“ _Does_ your wyvern have a name?” prompts Catherine.

Cyril stops walking for a second, stumbling over a loose floorboard. He picks up the pace soon enough, but his hesitation is clear. “Um, no. Maybe she should, though? I mean, she’s been my companion for so long now, and I’ve never even really thought about it.” He thinks for a moment, hand to his chin. “Maybe… Mehr?” It’s an Almyran word, Catherine thinks, which takes her by surprise more than anything—she’s only heard Cyril speak Almyran once, in a hushed and clipped conversation with Claude years ago. “I think that means something like ‘friendship’ or ‘sun’—I dunno, there’s lots of different meanings. But she should have a name.” He says it with more determination this time, smiling to himself. “She’s a real good wyvern.”

“That she is,” says Catherine, thinking of her hunched over Cyril’s wounded form, protecting him from any danger with teeth bared and claws unsheathed. “That she is.”

*

As Rhea had fallen and the world had, in many eyes, begun anew, Shamir had breathed out with relief.

Even as Byleth had fallen alongside her and then risen back up with their hair as dark as it had been when they’d first met Shamir, the only sense in her body then had been one of calm, a serenity that swept over her. Her bow had slipped from her fingers to the ground on sheer instinct. She’d dismounted her horse to lean against its side. She had closed her eyes, the glow of the flames flashing against her eyelids, and thought, with a naivety she hadn’t possessed in decades: _It’s over._

The ruined city of Fhirdiad had been a blur around her. Somewhere, she’d heard Edelgard’s voice ordering everyone—friend and foe alike—to lay down their weapons, announcing the victory of the Adrestian Empire and the end of the war. Instead of specific words, all Shamir had made out had been the strain of Edelgard’s voice as she’d spoken loud enough to be heard over the roaring fire.

Shamir had shaken her head at her own thoughts. The war was over by official means. Still, it’d take months—perhaps years—for Fhirdiad to be restored to its prior state and for things across Fódlan to settle down. It would take longer for the world to adjust to its new leaders, for the living collateral damage to recover.

And as for the lives lost throughout the past five years, the personnel of the Church (Shamir’s former comrades, though such loyalties meant little) slain tonight—

Well, Shamir had long ago left behind guilt for the bodies in her wake, and she had told herself even longer ago that she wouldn’t let feelings interfere with business.

Was it business anymore, though? she had wondered as she’d squinted forward at the shadow of the Immaculate One’s body, steam still trailing up from the impact of the Heroes’ Relics that had felled her. One other emotion had existed within Shamir: Pride. She hadn’t dealt the killing blow, nor had she wished she had, but—

To be able to contribute to the downfall of one who had caused centuries’ worth of hurt… Shamir had to admit, it was enough to almost make her smile.

Halting footsteps had diverted her attention. She’d turned to see Ferdinand, an arm slung around Hubert’s shoulders both to support himself and help hold Hubert up, limping over to her. Shamir had glanced them over, but neither had seemed in dire condition; the blood staining their clothing was too sparse to be theirs (or at least an unhealthy amount of it), and Ferdinand’s leg had been damaged many months prior. They’d both looked pale and stricken, though, faces somewhat blank—almost as if they hadn’t known what to do now. Shamir had realized that she wasn’t quite certain, either. She’d fought in one war, sure, but not on the winning side.

Ferdinand had broken the silence with a cough. “Linhardt is taking care of most of the healing,” he’d said by way of greeting, nodding to a hazy figure in the distance, “but I surmised I should ask—are you injured at all, Shamir?”

“No.” Not physically, though Shamir hadn’t seen the need to note that. “Shouldn’t you do this in a more sterile environment?”

“Normally, yes. However—”

“Some of the wounds are too severe to risk any sort of journey,” Hubert had finished when Ferdinand hadn’t. The trepidation and sympathy in Ferdinand’s face had been less evident in Hubert’s expression and hoarse voice, made rougher by the conditions of the battlefield, but they hadn’t been absent altogether.

Shamir hadn’t known what was happening on her own face. Her skin had felt damp, but whether it was with tears or sweat—neither of which she had ever been prone to shedding—she hadn’t known. She hadn’t wanted to know.

She hadn’t flinched when Ferdinand had looked at her with something like pity in his eyes, but something had shifted beneath her skin nonetheless. “Indeed,” Ferdinand had said before giving Shamir another pointed glance. “You are quite sure that you are all right?”

His persistence had always been admirable on the battlefield; now, Shamir had found it considerably less so. “Yes, I am.”

Though he hadn’t looked quite satisfied, Ferdinand had nodded dutifully. “If that is the case, then I shall go check on the others. Hubert, are you able to stand on your own?”

“Let’s find out.” Looking grim, Hubert had removed his arm from Ferdinand’s shoulders—he’d staggered a little, foot almost slipping out from beneath him, but he’d caught himself and managed to hold himself upright. After a pregnant pause, he’d relaxed his shoulders and turned a look somehow both imploring and smug upon Ferdinand.

“You should not simply _do that_.” Hubert’s cavalier attitude had only served to make Ferdinand look _more_ stressed. “What if you had fallen?”

“Then I imagine you would have caught me,” Hubert had said dryly, under the pretense of sarcasm, but Shamir hadn’t doubted that Ferdinand would have in a heartbeat, on sheer instinct if nothing else.

When Ferdinand had only shaken his head, not bothering to respond aloud, Hubert had straightened enough to brush Ferdinand’s wind-strewn hair out of his face. Shamir had looked away as he’d tucked it behind Ferdinand’s ears. It had seemed a casually private moment, a subconscious show of intimacy she wouldn’t have expected from Hubert. An unspoken exchange had seemed to pass between them in the ensuing silence; by the time Shamir returned her gaze to them, Ferdinand had stepped back with resolution in his jaw.

“If I should come upon Edelgard,” he’d said, marginally less harried, “I shall send her to the both of you.”

“Her Majesty shouldn’t trouble herself with that— _I_ shall find _her_ ,” Hubert had tried, but Ferdinand had already turned and whistled for his horse.

The tawny coat of his horse had blurred past as it came running, and Ferdinand had scrambled aboard with a well-practiced maneuver and galloped off, scarlet-painted hair and midnight-blue cape flowing after him. Shamir had waited for him to vanish altogether before she’d looked back toward Hubert.

Without Ferdinand’s aid, he’d slumped somewhat, body slanted somewhat to the side. He’d rubbed at his heavy-lidded eyes with the least bloody parts of his gloves and shaken his head at, presumably, Ferdinand’s rashness. Slack limbs aside, he had seemed able to stand by himself, so Shamir hadn’t pushed it. For a moment, they’d stood their opposite each other, neither speaking. Fhirdiad had continued to burn at their backs.

Shamir had inhaled, slow, and brought herself to ask: “What happened to Cyril?”

In a blink, Hubert had slipped back into tactician mode, arms folded behind his back and shoulders high despite the exhaustion visible in his face. “You’d have to ask Bernadetta,” he’d said with subtle pride. “I believe she was the one who went up against him, and since she’s still standing—” he’d gestured over his shoulder, to which a shadowy figure Shamir had to assume was Bernadetta had her head burrowed in her horse’s side “—it is probable that he no longer is.”

Shamir had expected this, but her stomach had still twisted. She’d pressed her lips together and nodded. The last time she’d seen Cyril had been when they’d reclaimed Garreg Mach five years ago, and seeing how much he’d grown—without her, to boot—had been bittersweet indeed, as was the fact that she’d never see how much further he could grow. For a moment she’d wished she could have told him of his potential.

Then she’d brought herself back to it. “And Catherine?”

Hubert had tilted his head. “We’ll inspect the extent of the wreckage come morning,” he’d said—and perhaps then, Shamir should have seen a flicker of something akin to (but simultaneously opposite from) hope, but even he couldn’t have known then. “But it seems unlikely she could have survived.”

Shamir had closed her eyes. She’d not felt remorse, nor regret; there had simply been a numbness in her, an empty place in her heart that once could have stayed with Catherine had their paths converged. Catherine had gone down like a warrior, as she’d always intended. She had fought to the last, and that—

A bitter taste had filled Shamir’s mouth. She’d grimaced, chalking it up to the blood from the cut on her cheek. (A glancing blow, nothing she’d need treatment for, so she hadn’t lied when she’d told Ferdinand she wasn’t hurt.)

This had been the ending Shamir had always expected. She hadn’t been satisfied—who would have been?—but she had squared her shoulders and faced reality, felt the glory and grief mingling in the air around her.

The smoke had cleared a considerable amount, but Shamir had blamed the remnants for the tightness in her throat.

*

In keeping with the size of the rest of the Aegir estate, the quarters they’re assigned to are far larger than those they’d received at the Ordelia estate. They’re also all along the same corridor, rooms spaced out one-by-one and connecting to the same bathroom. The beds are plenty large enough, to Catherine’s relief.

They get themselves settled in while Ferdinand heads back toward the kitchens. Catherine divests herself of her cloak and armor, what with the balmy air, and looks around; size aside, the room is strikingly similar to the one in the Ordelia home, with a similar feeling of neat emptiness. There’s not much for her to do but stare at the divots in the bedstead, so she strolls right back out.

With directions from a reluctant Lili, she heads out back to the Aegir stables, rolling her sleeves up on the way. The walk is short and uneventful. Catherine finds the stables to be as well-equipped as Ferdinand had mentioned—far more luxurious than the Garreg Mach stables, at any rate. She doesn’t have any particular favoritism toward horses, but she’s admittedly impressed.

The sun has set, but the low-hanging moon illuminates the coastline in the distance. This is the one truly alone—save for the horses, of course—moment Catherine has gotten in what must be months, and she’s going to bask in it as much as she can.

She trudges through the dirt, well aware of the mud and other questionable substances splattering her boots. They’ve seen worse; in her early days as a knight, Catherine had polished her armor every night and every morning, intent on keeping it pristine as possible to reflect her perfect service in Lady Rhea’s name, but she’d given up on that habit after a handful of missions.

Catherine’s teeth press together. She wanders through the stables until she finds Chestnut’s temporary lodgings, a stall across from one containing Mehr. Leonie’s horse must be elsewhere. There are, after all, a _lot_ of horses here.

The thought that all of them have names and personalities makes Catherine shudder as she leans against Mehr’s door.

“You have a name now,” she tells her blandly. She recalls Cyril’s pronunciation, mouthing the Almyran word to herself for a moment before repeating it, and Mehr’s ears twitch the slightest bit. Having trained a few dogs in her life, Catherine figures Mehr is old enough that the name isn’t likely to stick in her mind, but there’s no harm in it. Wyverns do tend to be smarter than dogs. “How does that make you feel?”

Mehr snorts but doesn’t otherwise answer. She’s curled up into a ball on the straw-covered floor, wings folded. The stall seems somewhat small for her, but she doesn’t seem bothered—or if she is, Catherine has no idea how to tell.

It hits Catherine that she’s resorted to talking to a wyvern. She rubs her forehead, still leaning against the stall door, and looks around for anything to feed Mehr. Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing in sight.

“This is weird,” Catherine says to Mehr, who again snorts.

“What is?” comes a voice from the entrance, and Catherine jolts to attention only to find Ferdinand stepping in, wearing a much rattier set of clothing than he had been earlier, complete with bulky gloves and boots. His hair is in a tight bun at the back of his neck. He’s without his cane now, both hands behind his back, but he’s still favoring one side, left leg dragged somewhat behind him.

Catherine finds herself unable to answer. Ferdinand takes her silence the wrong way and laughs.

“It is quite all right,” he tells her. “The horses—and wyverns, I presume, though I must admit I have not interacted with many—enjoy it when you speak to them. Though I will not tell anyone if you so wish.”

“I—that wasn’t—” Catherine clears her throat and scratches at the back of her head, confounded by how someone with such a blithe smile could have garnered one of the largest alleged body counts by the Church’s records. “Why are you here?”

If he’s offended by her brusque tone, Ferdinand doesn’t show it. He slips one hand out from behind his back to reveal a large burlap sack. When Catherine inhales, she wonders how she could have missed the strong smell of meat beforehand. From the looks of it, the sack must weigh almost a third of Ferdinand’s weight, but he’s holding it one-handed like it’s nothing—the mystery begins to clear up.

“I had to procure some food for Cyril’s wyvern, and I did not think the average horse food would do for—Mehr, you said her name was?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Catherine shrugs. Glancing over her shoulders between Ferdinand and Mehr, she adds, “I can feed her. She might not take it from someone she doesn’t know.”

“Oh! Yes, that is a wise call.” With a somewhat wry quirk to his smile, Ferdinand tosses her the bag.

Catherine catches it in one go (and one hand) and elbows her way into Mehr’s stall. Nostrils flaring, Mehr straightens up so fast that her tail thumps against the walls. Catherine flings her the bag—she also has to wonder how he managed to acquire so much raw meat in such a limited amount of time.

When she steps back out, leaving Mehr to gorge herself, she asks him outright.

“Aegir is famous for our wine,” is his answer. “Therefore, we must have a ready supply of meat to pair with our varieties. Perhaps you will be able to see that for yourself at dinner—that will not be long now, by the way.”

“Maybe,” says Catherine with another shrug. She can’t deny that the smell of meat has whet her appetite.

Her shrug brings Ferdinand’s attention, no longer focused on Mehr, to her arm. He hesitates for a moment before saying affably, “That is quite the scar you have there.”

At so much as that mention, a tingling sensation spreads from Catherine’s fingertips to her elbow, spiderwebbing its way through her nerves. She flexes her fingers. “Indeed. Your boyfriend’s doing, so I’m told.”

“I see.” There is neither resentment nor happiness in Ferdinand’s voice—as far as he’s concerned, it appears, it’s a mere fact. For all Catherine knows, Hubert or Shamir might have already told him. “It certainly is a dark magic wound, at least.”

“I could’ve told you that much.” Catherine cracks her knuckles, unsurprised when a sharp pain trails up her arm. It’s a different kind of pain than what she’s most used to, but it’s not like she hasn’t experienced plenty of pain in her life, so she’s adjusted well enough that all it does is make her eye twitch.

Ferdinand, watching carefully, asks, “May I?”

Uncertain of just what he’s asking if he may do, Catherine nods, however tentative.

Ferdinand’s expression brightens. He comes to stand beside her, far enough that Catherine doesn’t bristle but still close enough that she scrunches her brow in further confusion.

“You see,” says Ferdinand, waving a hand, “I have picked up some healing magic over the years. It is not my strong suit, as much as I would like to claim otherwise, but I still like to think that I am at least decent at it.”

“Huh.” Parallels are stitching themselves together in Catherine’s mind, but she dismisses them in favor of saying, recalling Shamir’s off-handed advice, “So you want to heal this?”

Ferdinand nods. “There are limits to magic. This has gone long enough without treatment that it may never heal completely,” he says, careful yet resolute, “but still, I would like to try.”

Catherine crosses her arms. “Why?”

“Pardon?” asks Ferdinand, smile frozen.

“Why would you want to heal me? Especially when Hubert was the one who did this to me.”

Ferdinand takes a moment to mull that one over. “Well,” he says after a moment, with that same mix of simultaneous finality and caution, “you are a human being, and the way I see it, you are no longer a threat to me and mine. You were, I admit, the subject of my ire in the past, but I would like to put much of that behind us now, in the effort of a brighter future for all. Is that not enough of a reason?”

To Catherine’s further frustration, his expression is about as earnest as she suspects it can get. “Fine,” she decides, sticking out her arm.

“Wonderful.”

For all that Catherine has used healing magic as of late, the last time she can recall having it used on her had been as a teenager, when Lady Rhea had saved her life. Her fighting style is reckless, yes, but she’d tried to avoid getting hit during the final skirmishes of the war—far more important people than she had needed the brunt of the healing, which had been far from a bottomless resource. Not that it did them any good in the end, Catherine thinks with a bitter scowl.

“Try to relax,” Ferdinand tells her.

Catherine can only offer him a glare before he’s stepping back and raising his hands over her arm, swathing it in magical energy.

She isn’t sure what she’d expected, so the feeling of Ferdinand’s magic takes her by surprise. It’s nowhere near as powerful as Rhea’s had been, but it’s also somewhat stronger than Catherine’s, if only because he’s used it more often and for longer than she has. The secondhand warmth of her own magic is nothing compared to the heat that radiates from Ferdinand’s palms.

Perhaps it has something to do with the intent and emotions behind the magic as well as its user. Catherine’s breathing slows. The tension in her muscles dissipates as magic spreads through her arm. Ferdinand’s eyes are closed all the while, lips pressed together and fingers twitching.

After a moment, Catherine looks down again. The scar isn’t gone, but it has faded a considerable amount, only a couple of shades darker and ashier than her normal skin tone.

“Huh,” she says.

Ferdinand lifts his gaze, seeming as surprised as she is. “Does it feel any better?”

Catherine shakes her arm out. A pinch-like pain disperses throughout her arm, but that’s nothing compared to the blackout-inducing pain she’d experienced mere weeks ago. Her arm feels lighter than it once had.

“Yeah,” she says, lips somewhat numb. “Thank you.”

“I am only glad I could help,” says Ferdinand, smile back in a blink. He clears his throat and steps away. “I will send Lili to fetch you when dinner is prepared. I do hope you will join us.”

As he disappears, Catherine curls her hand into a fist, unable to help herself from considering the irony of him healing a scar Hubert had left behind.

She rests her back against Mehr’s stall, listening to her still eating inside (she’s a sloppy eater, but Catherine can say the same for many others). Might as well take advantage of what little alone time she has left before dinner.

*

Dinner goes far better than Catherine expects it to, with more lively conversations than even at the Ordelia home, if only because Ferdinand wheedles stories of their journey out of them. His presence somehow serves to abate most of the lingering tension. He glosses over their discomfort but doesn’t ignore it altogether, smiling and inquiring after their needs. It’s as unnerving as it is paradoxically calming.

His mother, Duchess Aegir, doesn’t join them, having eaten earlier in the day, but Ferdinand speaks of her with a glowing smile that takes Catherine aback. Funny, how she can forget such relaxed parent-child relationships exist.

The food, too, isn’t half-bad. Not as sweet as their meal in the Ordelia household, but tea is served alongside it, as is the wine and meat Ferdinand had spoken of, though Catherine doesn’t partake in the alcohol. She earns a surprised look from Shamir—who also turns down a glass—for this. Catherine just rolls her eyes. Sure, something in her is aching for some good liquor, but intoxication is the last thing she needs on top of everything else going on right now.

Ferdinand takes it in stride and continues carrying on the conversation without a hiccup. His genuine interest in their travels is surprising enough to get even Cyril to tell a couple of halting stories, though everyone skirts around the true awkwardness and outright hostility that still dogs them.

All the same, Ferdinand retires early, saying he has a letter to send. There isn’t much keeping Catherine, Cyril, and Shamir in the dining hall, so they file out soon enough as well.

Catherine takes a moment to breathe in her room, pacing to rid herself of any remaining agitation. Then, thankful to have a real bathroom again, she traipses right into the one connected to her room.

The first things she notices are the cold stone walls, lined with soft-looking towels and sconces, bringing light to a simple but extravagant bathtub and sink. Moonlight streams in through a window. It’s a clean, airy room. The knots in Catherine’s shoulders start to unwind just from a quick glance around.

The second thing she notices is that she’s not alone. Instead of an empty room, she’s met with Shamir.

Catherine freezes in the doorway, shoulders tensing again. Shamir’s back is to her, but she’s facing the mirror, and her head lifts at the sound of the door creaking open. Her eyes meet those of Catherine’s reflection.

Startled silence fills the gap between them. Shamir isn’t yet nude, but she is dressed down to her pants and an undershirt, leaving the broad expanse of her muscular, tan back visible, marred with a few scars and showing her years of experience as an archer. Her clothes and figure mask her musculature sometimes, so for a beat, it takes Catherine by surprise until she shifts her attention down and to the side. With her side covered, Shamir’s Demonic Beast-inflicted wound isn’t visible. Catherine finds herself staring at the place where it would be anyway. Shamir seems to be carrying herself more easily, movements still measured but somewhat less careful.

With a sigh, Shamir shakes her wet hands off in the sink. “We should have arranged a schedule to use this room.”

“Yes, I see that now,” says Catherine, irritation creeping into her tone. She eyes Shamir’s side again and asks, deciding to leave an expression of more genuine concern unspoken, “You’re not going to be bleeding into the water or anything, right?”

Shamir’s reflection puts her at something of a disadvantage; even if she’s facing away from Catherine, Catherine can still see enough of the mirror to see her slight grimace at that. Still, she straightens up and rests her hands on the edge of the counter. “No. I shouldn’t be bleeding at all. Ferdinand saw to that.”

She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t have to. “His healing magic is stronger than mine, huh?”

“He’s been practicing it for longer.” Shamir tilts her head and looks over her shoulder. “Besides, I would replace the water afterward nonetheless. You can bathe first, if it means that much to you.”

“No thanks.” Catherine brings her eyes away from Shamir’s bare shoulders, as sturdy as the rest of her back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Shamir opens her mouth as if to speak again, but Catherine is already turning and slipping back through the door to her temporary quarters, slamming it behind her. Minutes later, she hears the subtle _splash_ of Shamir getting into the bathtub.

Catherine buries her head in her hands and barely even notices when her back starts sliding down the door, bringing her to a crouching position. _Dammit._

She doesn’t bother standing back up. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, not all that surprised but irritated nonetheless—more so at herself than anyone else. Years of nothing but resentment, and here she is again, breathless at a glimpse of Shamir’s back.

 _Get a fucking_ grip, she tells herself.

She doesn’t even need to remind herself of the yards-long list of reasons why nothing will happen. It’s already unfurling itself at the back of her mind, imaginary text in red bright enough to make her eyes hurt just from picturing it.

Shamir’s bath must be as efficient as everything else she does, because it only takes a few minutes for her to rap at Catherine’s door. She doesn’t say a word, but there’s a beat of silence before her footsteps disappear. Catherine stays seated. Only basic, instinctive self-preservation keeps her from groaning and knocking her head back against the door. A half-hour later, she hears Cyril enter before she can work up the nerve.

Distraction, she decides, is key. And so she gets up with a sigh and heads over to her discarded coat to remind herself of something she’s been ignoring all evening.

Already resigning herself to sleeping with dried blood in her hair and bathing first thing in the morning instead, Catherine settles down to read one Hubert von Vestra’s letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! _next time_ : a confrontation and a compromise. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are, as always, super appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	12. when the reckoning arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter twelve: manipulation/exploitation/child servitude, implied racism/xenophobia (including internalized), violence, the same pseudo-animal death as in chapter eight, grief, and brief implications of suicide ideation.
> 
> the entire time i was editing this i was watching the wordcount tick up in horror as opposed to the joy i usually get, but it seems it didn't beat out chapter 4 after all. chapter title from "heretic pride" by the mountain goats. enjoy!

“I want to start training in combat. I want to be able to really protect you, Lady Rhea.”

Cyril’s voice had echoed off of the walls of the office, empty save for him and Lady Rhea, and he’d been somewhat embarrassed but unwilling to take his declaration back. Lady Rhea’s smile had been placid, saintly, as she’d looked at Cyril without seeming to really see him.

Until now, he’d never have dreamed of standing in this room, but desperate times had called for desperate measures. Since she’d taken Cyril in from House Goneril a few months back, Lady Rhea had allowed him to take on odd jobs around the monastery. Cleaning, feeding the animals (Cyril had taken care of wyverns back in Almyra, so he’d grown fond of them in particular), more cleaning, chopping wood, even more cleaning (he liked that, too, but more than anything, he was _good_ at it). His way of chipping in, she’d said it was—this way, he could help to improve the space everyone shared and lived in.

Cyril, however, hadn’t been satisfied. He was fine doing the work—he’d been used to doing it for a long time, and it at least kept him from boredom and made him feel helpful. But something about it had also felt wrong. Simple menial service wasn’t an equitable exchange for a life, even one as insignificant as his.

So here he’d stood, hands balled into fists at his side as he made a desperate bid to the archbishop herself. His words had rung in the air for a moment as he’d shuffled his feet, trying not to feel uncomfortable in the room so laden with the symbolism of Seiros. When Lady Rhea hadn’t spoken, he’d swallowed and decided to continue in a shaking voice.

“I’m tough,” he’d said, though he’d known he was nothing next to most of the Knights of Seiros. “I don’t need to be a real squire or anything like that. I—I just—I wanna be able to fight somehow. So that I can protect you, Lady Rhea, in the real way.”

“You already protect the monastery with your diligent work,” Lady Rhea had said at last, voice gentle.

“That’s not enough.” Cyril had tried to keep his tone steady, but his young petulance had swelled up within him, and he’d tightened his fists, nails digging into damp (he’d cleaned the greenhouse this morning, so he’d washed his hands before coming here) palms. “I wanna be able to protect _you_ , Lady Rhea, not just the monastery. And I can’t do that if I don’t know how to fight.”

Another brief silence had ensued, and then Lady Rhea had straightened up, hands folded at her waist, casting Cyril in her tall shadow. “You want to fight. Are you certain? It is dangerous out there, you know.”

Something in her gaze had almost made Cyril rethink—it had reminded him of the feral wyverns that roamed the Almyran mountains, beasts as wild as the odd creatures here in Fódlan, somehow graceful even in their monstrousness. But he hadn’t been able to back down. He had brought himself to square his jaw, trying to look older, and nod.

Lady Rhea’s eyes had closed, and her chin had lowered. “You are a brave, honorable child,” she’d said, peering from beneath her lids with warmth, a show of affection that Cyril had already learned to cherish. “Very well. I shall introduce you to one of our most skilled knights, then. Tell me, Cyril—how do you feel about archery?”

“Uh—” Cyril had also learned not to question Lady Rhea, so he’d bitten down on a _why?_ and cut straight to the answer: “I don’t have many feelings on it. I used to take care of wyverns, so I know a little. And I’ve held a bow before. It’s interesting to me, I guess.”

“Then you have no opposition to studying it?”

Cyril had been half-stunned at his luck, but not enough so to fall silent. “No! Of course not, Lady Rhea. I—I’d be happy to train in anything that could help me protect you.”

“Excellent.” Lady Rhea had smiled, thin but bright, and bowed her head. “Shamir will teach you the basics, and we’ll see from there how your training should progress. Was that all?”

“Yes, Lady Rhea—thank you,” Cyril had said, blushing at the fact that he hadn’t thought to say so yet.

Lady Rhea had dismissed him with little more than a pointed look, and he’d almost tripped over himself in his excitement, bowing once before scurrying off to clean the dining hall before the students arrived for lunch.

The next day, as promised, one of the Knights of Seiros had approached him on his way to the entrance hall. She’d done little more than clear her throat, but it had stopped him in his tracks nonetheless. He’d been halfway through an excuse when her face had clicked in his mind.

“Oh,” he’d said, “you must be Shamir.”

He’d seen her around, albeit not for long—as far as he’d noticed, she and her partner, the tall blonde lady Cyril had heard some other knights address as “Catherine,” were off on missions a lot. It hadn’t been hard for Cyril to tell why. Between Catherine’s sword and Shamir’s stance, they had been recognizable as a pair of fighters at first glance. Cyril had warily looked up at Shamir, leaner and shorter but no less muscular or intimidating than Catherine.

She’d glanced him over, too, dark eyes scrutinizing and cold. “Yes,” she’d said after a moment, voice quiet and low and carrying some sort of faint accent Cyril hadn’t been able to identify. “I hear you want to learn archery techniques.”

“Yes,” Cyril had said, almost immediate.

“Have you been trained as an archer before?”

“Not for fighting.” Cyril had scratched the side of his neck. He’d heard plenty of talk about Almyra’s barbaric practices, so he’d expected some sort of surprise from her, but her expression hadn’t shifted. “But I’ve hunted and worked with wyverns, so I know a little about bows—mostly from the other end, though.”

Shamir had turned her head with a click of her tongue and a mutter in a language Cyril hadn’t known. Cyril hadn’t reacted besides blinking at the ground. He wasn’t supposed to have understood, that much he’d been certain of, but he hadn’t known whether he was meant to hear. He’d shrunk under her silent judgment, her cold demeanor making him feel just as small as he had under the brunt of Lady Rhea’s warm yet distant attention. He hadn’t cared about impressing her as much as he had Lady Rhea, but—

“I’ve got good senses,” he’d added. “You know, like, sight and hearing and smell. I can see real well.” He’d lowered his head somewhat when Shamir still hadn’t spoken, only staring at him with something only marginally approaching interest. “That’s good for hunting, right?”

“It is.”

“So it should be good in battle and stuff too.”

Shamir had shifted her weight between her feet and folded her arms. “You want to fight,” she’d said, and though it hadn’t been a question, Cyril had nodded. “Why?”

“Uh—so I can fight for Lady Rhea.”

“Why do you want to protect Rhea?”

“ _Lady_ Rhea,” Cyril had corrected reflexively. He hadn’t known what was so funny about what he’d said, but Shamir’s mouth had twitched up, then fallen so fast he figured he’d imagined the half-smile to begin with. His gaze had dropped to the ground. “She saved me.”

Shamir’s frown had deepened. “Saved you?”

“Yes,” Cyril had said, perhaps too indignantly to an adult, but Shamir hadn’t looked offended. “I’m from Almyra. Did you know that?”

“I assumed.”

Not a hard guess, Cyril had thought; there were plenty of things about him, he’d known, that were identifiable as _other_ at once. Rather than dwelling on it, he’d coughed. “My parents died in battle. I used to work for a noble family in the Leicester Alliance—” his mouth had soured thinking of the Gonerils’ flippancy and laziness; had any of them had to work for a thing in their lives? Had they considered where they came from, whose bodies their estate was built upon? “—but Lady Rhea took me in.”

A strange look had crossed Shamir’s face. “So you owe her a debt,” she had said, tone lacking in emotion—the almost deliberate absence of it had been just as jarring.

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Cyril had insisted, a slight tingling sensation at the back of his neck. “It’s not like I owe her gold or anything. I just—I wanna repay her for everything she’s done for me, and I don’t think I can do that as just a regular worker.”

“I see.” Arms crossing tighter, Shamir had looked away. She’d exhaled through her nose with what had seemed like a great deal of forceful restraint. “Well, we’re both foreigners.”

“Oh, I don’t really pay attention to that sort of thing.” Cyril had thought about House Goneril’s generalizations of people like him, of vague stories he’d heard of Duscur and Brigid and Dagda. “I don’t care much about Almyra, ‘cause Lady Rhea is the only one who’s been kind to me since my folks died. It’s just the place I was born. I don’t have anything in common with those people.”

“Hm. How old are you?”

The sudden question had made Cyril blink, and he’d tugged at his frayed collar. He would need to stitch his shirt up soon, he’d thought; the constant rewashing and rewearing, since it wasn’t like he could just ask Lady Rhea for more, had put something of a dent in it. Callouses had formed on his fingers from how often he’d held the needles provided by Sir Alois.

“Twelve,” he’d managed, “and a half.” Shame had filled his tone, even though he had known it wasn’t a bad thing. Every part of his body had raged to be seen as more than just some Almyran kid subsisting off of handouts, a poor child adrift in the world.

Shamir had sworn under her breath. At least, Cyril had assumed it was a swear, because it still wasn’t in a language he understood.

“Um,” he had ventured, desperate to change the topic, “if we’re both foreigners… where are _you_ from?”

“Dagda.”

“Oh. That’s west of here, isn’t it? On the same landmass—” he hadn’t been quite sure what that word meant, but he’d more or less put it together from context “—as Brigid.”

Shamir had blinked. He hadn’t been able to tell if she was surprised or not. “Yes. We lost the war a few years back, I came here, Rhea took me in, and now I work as a mercenary alongside the Knights of Seiros.” Her tone had stayed neutral—no bitterness nor veneration.

Cyril had frowned. “Aren’t you grateful to Lady Rhea?”

“Sure. She’s my employer, and I’ll strive to carry out my duties in her name until I’ve sufficiently repaid my debt to her.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Shamir had shrugged. “I hold no loyalty to the Church or even necessarily Rhea.”

Cyril’s mouth had twisted into a bitter line. He hadn’t understood her statement, but he hadn’t been able to tell if it was the language barrier—between their accents and native tongues, they were bound to stumble into confusion speaking in Fódlan—or if she’d meant what she’d said to the letter. Inferiority had filled his cheeks with a hot flush invisible against his skin tone.

“Listen,” Shamir had said, and Cyril had fallen still. She’d looked away with a soft sigh. “I’ll train you.”

In an instant, the previous conversation had fallen away. Cyril’s heart had leapt, and a smile had split across his face on sheer instinct—he’d blurted, eyes wide, “Really?!”

Shamir hadn’t so much as blinked. Her face had stayed the same: Neutral, but bordering on what seemed like anger from where Cyril was standing.

His excitement had faltered somewhat, that warmth in his cheeks creeping back up. He’d tugged at his collar again when it almost threatened to choke him. “Are you tricking me or something?” he’d asked, fingers fitting themselves between his neck and the loose fabric of his shirt. “You’re really gonna train me, aren’t you? You’re not joking?”

“Yes, I’m going to train you.” The flat response had only made Cyril’s stomach tense further, and Shamir had noticed: “Don’t take my lack of emotion personally. Ask anyone—it’s just how I am.”

Her brusqueness had only conflicted him more, but he’d nodded anyway, knowing enough to know not to take this opportunity for granted. “Thank you—uh, can I just call you Shamir?”

“That works. Unlike most of Fódlan seems to, I don’t care much for titles or status as a whole.”

“Okay.” Cyril hadn’t yet known much about the whole deal with the nobility or even the hierarchy of the Church or Knights of Seiros—all that he’d cared to know thus far was that Lady Rhea was the archbishop and his savior, putting her far, far above him. “When do we start? With training, I mean. You’ve gotta have a lot of missions to take care of, right? And I’ve got a ton of cleaning and stuff like that, so we should probably work out some sort of schedule or something.”

Gaze coolly shrewd, Shamir had studied him. “Your training starts right now,” she’d decided.

“Right now?”

“Yes.” Without elaborating, Shamir had turned and rustled on the ground for a moment. She’d stood back up with something in her hands and handed it over to Cyril. “Here. Practice with this.” Cyril had stared down—in a certain light, it could have looked like a bow, but—

“Uh, Shamir? This is a stick.”

Shamir had nodded, bemused. “When you prove yourself worthy of a bow,” she’d said at his continued bewilderment, “you can hold one. Make do for now.”

She’d walked away without so much as another word, and frustration had welled up in Cyril, sparking tears he was far too old for in the corners of his eyes. But he’d rushed forward to keep pace with her. He hadn’t yet been tired, having only gotten through about a third of his duties for the day. Shamir hadn’t looked back at him.

“How am I supposed to protect Lady Rhea with this?” he’d demanded nonetheless, waving the stick about.

“Think about it,” Shamir had said. She’d stopped for a moment, letting him draw even with her, and kept her gaze forward. “You can accompany me and Catherine on our next mission. That’ll be next week. It’s low-risk enough that you should be able to observe us without putting yourself in any real danger.”

And Cyril had thought: _As long as it’s for Lady Rhea, I don’t_ mind _being in danger._ And he had thought: _Lady Rhea thinks I’m brave and honorable. She wouldn’t mind, either._

Something about the look in Shamir’s eyes had made him think twice about saying so aloud, so all he’d done was nod, white-knuckling the feeble stick in his hand.

*

They’re able to leave Aegir earlier in the morning than they had Ordelia, in part because Shamir forces herself to. She wakes before dawn breaks at the sound of the bath filling again—Catherine, no doubt, but though she doesn’t linger on the encounter, Shamir hauls herself up and begins preparing right then and there anyway.

The remaining portion of their trip is a bandage that will need to be torn straight off. If Shamir dallies, it’ll hurt when it arrives. So she’ll stay collected and focused, keeping her eyes on the horizon.

As she gets ready, the previous night lingers at the back of her mind, to her dismay. Catherine’s startled and flushed expression in the mirror, her terse words, the door Shamir had uncharacteristically forgotten to lock (though that mightn’t have mattered, with Catherine’s strength), the unpleasant texture of the cold water on her skin afterward—

Shamir gnashes her teeth. It doesn’t matter. If Catherine doesn’t bring it up, neither will she, and Catherine knows that as well as she does, meaning that it won’t come up. Five years ago, it might have—had something like it happened at all, as they’d been comfortable enough with each other for it not to—but it won’t now.

In the end, Shamir supposes, they may both be cowards. But Shamir, for one, would rather lack bravery than tact.

When she knocks on Catherine’s door, it takes a moment for Catherine to emerge, and even then she doesn’t greet Shamir’s eyes. Her skin is damp from the bath she’d taken earlier, and her hair even more so. Darkened strands cling to her forehead and neck. Shamir doesn’t bother trying to strike up a conversation, only nodding in greeting before moving onto Cyril’s door.

Cyril is more tired than irritable, though he does mumble, “Hi, Shamir,” upon seeing her. Shamir spares few words—only to instruct them to get ready to leave within an hour or two—as she heads off to collect their steeds.

Ferdinand sees them off by nine, already dressed and primped, dirt on his gloves from tending to the horses. His smile is weary but no less bright. He’s leaning on his cane more heavily than he had the previous day, though Shamir hadn’t seen him exert himself any more than usual—an aftereffect of using magic on her wound, she suspects. He’d assured her it wouldn’t have any ill effect on himself, but perhaps he’d used more than intended.

Either way, Shamir doesn’t get the chance to mention it; Ferdinand is already speaking. “It is a shame to say farewell so soon,” he says, “but your journey as a whole is already coming to a head, so it seems.”

So it seems. Shamir nods in agreement, unable to agree out loud, and adds, “I will pass your greetings and well wishes onto Hubert and Edelgard when we see them.”

“You need not go that far,” says Ferdinand, but he seems pleased at the notion.

Before they leave, he offers bags of horse feed and treats in addition to the grains Shamir has kept in her pockets and pouches (she already travels light, and on her way from Enbarr to the Itha Plains, she’d met with a few merchants). Nowhere near the perfect diet, but more than enough to keep the horses from starving or tiring.

“These are handmade,” Ferdinand informs her as he shakes the bag of treats, “but, ah, perhaps feed them to your horses sparingly. Or if you have little else remaining. They are apple-flavored—Chestnut in particular likes that, as I recall.”

At the mention of her name, Shamir’s horse’s ears prick up. Shamir only nods and accepts the bags, slipping them away in empty pockets. Though she doesn’t dare turn, she can almost feel Catherine shaking her head behind her.

“Thank you again, Ferdinand.”

He shakes his head. “Your company was much appreciated,” he tells her, adjusting his cane to once again shake her head. “Certainly, if you ever find it in yourself to visit sometime in the future, you are more than free to do so.”

“Noted,” says Shamir, and it is, but that doesn’t mean she intends on following up—or at least not so long as her thoughts are occupied with her mission.

Ferdinand smiles nevertheless. “Do not be a stranger,” is the last thing he says before dropping her hand. “And good luck to you too,” he adds to Catherine and Cyril, “as well as your mounts. That Mehr is quite the wyvern.” The smile he gives Cyril is tinged with sadness, but the one he flashes at Catherine is a ray brighter for reasons Shamir can’t yet comprehend.

Shamir leaves without looking back, as she has done her entire life. (Except for one time, but her decision hadn’t been any different in the end then either.)

They walk for the stretch of land winding away from the mansion, tension not absent but also far from omnipresent. Catherine and Cyril are wearing expressions like they’re walking straight to the gallows, and Shamir can’t muster the energy nor general optimism to sway them otherwise. She does notice after a few minutes that Catherine’s arm seems less heavy at her side.

“Is that feeling better?” she asks after a moment’s reflection. It’s a safe enough question, she deems, and neutrally-voiced enough that Catherine doesn’t do much more than blink and shake the arm in question out on instinct.

“Still a little tingly,” she says, “but yeah, it seems a lot better.”

She doesn’t sound too surprised. Shamir can gather why, between Ferdinand’s weariness and skills in faith and Catherine’s obvious lack of any means by which to cure herself (fitting, for someone so self-sacrificing, at least for Rhea’s sake), so she doesn’t bother asking. It’s something that doesn’t need to be acknowledged aloud, and unimportant to the overall scope of the mission besides. The end result—Catherine in less pain and better physical condition overall—is all that matters.

Shamir can’t deny that she’s relieved on a personal level as well. She had known well of the probability, but still, her heartbeat had been faster than she’d allowed herself to pay attention to when she’d seen Catherine falter in that battle, falling for only the second time since Shamir had known her. She’s glad to know that the wound won’t be troubling her as much anymore.

But such introspection and attempts at tenderness have never suited Shamir well, especially not on a mission, so she shifts her eyes and mind forward.

*

The remainder of Aegir territory is flat, if wooded, and easy to navigate. Chestnut seems to be familiar with it enough to almost seem to lead Shamir more than Shamir leads her. Mehr is revitalized from the pile of meat she’d gotten in the Aegir stables, trotting alongside their horses with a spring in her step. By extension, Cyril is lighter too, and though Catherine is still somewhat rattled, she dismisses any negative thoughts that arise.

It’s nice here, Catherine has to admit. Aegir territory is clearly well attended to, even its wilder areas—the ones their party marches through, of course—overflowing with vitality. This time of year, the trees and flowers are in full bloom, and the air is hot but not unpleasant. A breeze carries over from the sea to relieve them from the sun beaming down overhead. Were she not in her current position, Catherine wouldn’t mind vacationing here sometime, but she doubts that’ll be a possibility for some time (if ever).

On the cusp of the territory, a scream shooting through the afternoon snaps Catherine out of her thoughts. She goes on guard at once, reaching for her sword before she’s so much as processed the sound, and registers somewhere that Shamir and Mehr have stopped too.

“Stay back!” she hears in the distance, a high and desperate sound.

Catherine turns to find that Shamir has already made a break for it, galloping straight forward. Catherine’s question of “Do you—” is lost in the whistling wind. With a muttered swear, she tells Cyril to hold on tight before following Shamir.

They break free from the trees to find a grim scene, although not as bloody as it could have been: A small girl with a steel lance raised and her scarlet cloak streaming after her, brown pigtails flowing free from a fallen hood, is facing down a pair of bird-like Demonic Beasts. She doesn’t seem injured, only breathless, but she’s outnumbered and outmatched.

“An ally,” Shamir tells Catherine and Cyril before either can ask. “Let’s go.”

They ride forth, Shamir already drawing and aiming her bow, and the girl turns. For a split second, her expression is filled with terror—and then she seems to recognize Shamir, for her eyes go wide and she shouts, “Shamir!”

“Talk later,” is Shamir’s flat response as she nocks an arrow.

Though she still looks startled and wan, the girl nods, lips sealed together and jaw set.

This fight goes much smoother than their previous encounter with a Demonic Beast. To a girl on her own, only carrying one close-range weapon, two winged Demonic Beasts would be daunting; with two archers and the bearer of Thunderbrand to help, it’s a warm-up. They slip into a rhythm with little more than a nod, strategy unspoken but no less effective. Shamir takes one, landing a fatal arrow in the Beast’s feathered chest just as the girl slices at its talons. Catherine and Cyril corner the other. With a few quick swipes from Catherine and a final blow from Cyril’s bow, it, too, falls to the ground with a horrendous roar.

Catherine exhales. It’s been so long since she’s been involved in regular fights that she’s in part forgotten how glorious battle can feel, the rush of adrenaline in her system and the pride and excitement at a well-earned victory with no casualties. She takes a moment to catch her breath while Shamir and Cyril dismount to survey the damages.

Catherine, too, clambers off her horse, just in time for the girl to rush over. She’s grinning, head bowed and lance lowered but not sheathed. Something about her face strikes Catherine as familiar, but she doesn’t have any time to think about it any further as the girl raises her head.

“Thank you, Shamir,” she says with a pointed nod in Shamir’s direction, and her mouth opens again as she turns toward Catherine and Cyril. “And thank—”

But she says no more, only freezing. Recognition hits Catherine at the same moment: She had seen this girl across a battlefield countless times, fighting alongside the Empire. In the blink of an eye, the girl’s demeanor has gone from grateful and cheery to almost murderous. Her weary blue eyes narrow with enough rage to take even Catherine by surprise.

“ _You,”_ she snarls, inadvertently finishing her sentence.

Shamir grimaces. “Fleche—”

“And you! Shamir! Why are you traveling with these people?” demands Fleche, clutching her lance to her chest. It’s well-made and well-maintained; certainly sharp enough to maim. “Why are they even alive?”

“That’s too long a story to tell here,” says Shamir, level even in the face of Fleche’s fury.

“A story?” Fleche’s eyes narrow further. “A story won’t bring my brother back to life.”

“Your brother?” asks Catherine.

It’s the wrong time for her to speak up; Shamir glances her way, and Fleche’s grip on her lance tightens. “Don’t play dumb! My brother Randolph. The elder son of the former Count Bergliez’s second wife—my mother, the one who I’m meant to be helping now instead of—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, merely making a noise of frustration. “No, fuck it. Your Church siblings-in-arms wouldn’t care who he was—only that he was another Empire casualty.”

“You attacked us,” points out Cyril. “You tried to attack Lady Rhea.”

“Oh, yes, _Lady Rhea_!” Fleche’s girlish ponytails stir around her small face as she shakes her head. She must be around Cyril’s age, Catherine realizes with a start. “Goddess forbid we defend ourselves from your perfect archbishop.”

“She wasn’t perfect,” snaps Catherine, and Fleche’s eyes widen with slight shock, as do Cyril’s. Catherine’s own breath feels like it’s trapped inside her throat, an unforgivable truth branding a pattern into her beating heart, loud in her ears. “She—she wasn’t. Or at least, I don’t think she was. Not anymore. She was a person.”

Fleche clicks her tongue. “Not much of one toward the end.”

Catherine opens her mouth, not sure herself whether she’ll agree or disagree, but it seems Fleche is done talking. She flips her lance around and presses it to the left side of Catherine’s chest. The tip is positioned just above her heart. Catherine tenses, and even Shamir sucks in a breath behind her.

To her side, Catherine can hear Cyril’s teeth grind together. She shoots him a look out of the corners of her eyes. His hand is on his axe, and his eyes are on Catherine, asking a silent question: _Should I?_

Worry fills Catherine for an instant, because she has never wanted Cyril to serve the same role for her that he had for Rhea, devoted in his subservience. (And it’s only now that she’s thinking of how Rhea had encouraged that.) But she doesn’t find unquestioning loyalty in him—only respect and trust. Theirs is an agreement of mutual companionship.

Catherine shakes her head as subtly as possible. Her gaze shifts back to Fleche, who is panting even harder than she had been during the battle, flushed with mental and physical exertion alike.

On Fleche’s face, in every bit of her, Catherine sees not the incoherent rage she’s projecting—and that she’s sure she does possess, somewhere, anger too sharp and loud to not be present at all—but sorrow and grief. Her hands shake on the lance in her grip, and her shoulders tremble even as she presses it to Catherine’s chest, ready to pierce her through the heart. Fear fills her wide-eyed, teary gaze. Her teeth are chattering rather than pressing together with resolve.

And Catherine understands.

When she speaks, her voice quivers as much as Fleche’s body is. “Killing me won’t bring your brother back,” she tells her. “Sometimes revenge works, and sometimes it’s even good—for you, for the world, for the future, for those you’ve lost. But had you ever thought about killing me before you met me here today? Have you prepared yourself for the aftermath? _Why_ do you really want me dead? Because of Randolph, or because of Rhea?”

Fleche falters. Just a little bit, but it’s enough for Catherine to keep going.

“I don’t know if this is what your brother would have wanted. I didn’t know him, and it’s not like anyone can ask him now that he’s gone.” Catherine’s chin tilts back—she would lean forward, but she’s worried about that driving the lance deeper into her chest. “It’s your choice.”

“Catherine—” starts Cyril.

Catherine raises a hand. She is still wearing her gauntlets, Demonic Beast blood coating the steel knuckles, but she makes no move to raise them. It would be so easy for her to reverse her situation, with how frail and scared Fleche is—and it’s for that precise reason that her hands fall limp at her sides.

“If you think killing me will help you move on, that it’s the right thing to do,” says Catherine, “then I respect that choice. Not like I _like_ it, but hey.” She shrugs as best she can. “But if you’re going to make any choice, then make it. Uncertainty is weakness.”

Silence ensues, suffocating in its omnipresence. Catherine closes her eyes and waits, tensing her fists, because she might _accept_ this fate, but she’d sworn long ago that she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The lance clatters to the ground. Fabric stirs, and Catherine opens her eyes to see Fleche sinking to the dirt, a sob wrenched from her chest.

Shamir is the one to crouch beside her. She doesn’t speak, but whatever Fleche glances up to see in her expression must be encouraging, for Fleche’s hands curl into fists against the grass. Her voice is choked when she says, “Randolph—he died honorably, protecting Her Majesty in battle. He was satisfied, at the end. But I’m not. Even though he took care of all of his professional affairs, and his death was hardly in vain, I—I—I can’t let go. It’s been _months_ , and I—I have to take care of our mother, but every day, it still hurts. I keep expecting to see him in the kitchen when I wake up, or get a letter from him every week, or something, and then I remember, and—I can’t—I—”

“Someone you loved is gone,” says Shamir, tone steady. “You’ll never see your brother’s smile again, or hear his voice, or be able to lean on him for support. It’s unfair. I know.”

Fleche’s breath hisses out between her teeth. “When does it stop feeling like this?”

“I can’t answer that for you.” Shamir’s head lowers, and her posture shifts slightly back. “It may never stop hurting. It is something you will carry with you for the rest of your life,” she says, and for what must be one of the first times—if not _the_ first time—since Catherine first met her, her voice trembles. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

With a gasping inhale, Fleche falls forward and flings her arms around Shamir to catch herself. She wails, open and unrestrained, into Shamir’s torso. Catherine can’t see Shamir’s face from here, but she can see how she tenses before placing an uncomfortable hand on Fleche’s shoulder, awkward but not cold.

If Catherine closes her eyes, she can almost feel the lance pressing into her still. She tilts her head back toward the sky with a shuddering exhale. Beside her, Cyril shuts his eyes and leans his head against Mehr’s side.

After some time, Fleche’s tears dry, and once she’s done sniffling, she peels herself off the ground and drags a red sleeve across her face. A relieved Shamir stands beside her. She hands her back the lance, which Fleche tucks back onto her hip with a defiant and wet inhale.

“This was Randolph’s,” she says in a low voice, tapping its hilt. “I got it after he—after he died.” She swallows. For a moment, Catherine fears she’s going to burst into tears again, but she manages to collect herself.

Shamir slackens. Ever the detached pragmatist, she’s quick to move on: “I assume you’re here with your mother. Are you going to be able to make it back to her all right?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” Fleche tugs at her hood. She looks a little unsteady, but she says, “I’m all right now. I know a different path back to our cabin—it’ll hopefully be quieter.”

“We’ll be close by.”

Lips pressed together, Fleche nods, then turns to Catherine. “I’m sorry.” It seems to surprise Fleche as much as it does Catherine, but Fleche clears her throat. Her eyes are red and raw around the edges. “My big brother—I honestly haven’t thought about him any more than usual in some time, but when I saw you… it all came flooding back.”

“I understand,” says Catherine, sighing. “I might not have been the one that killed him, but I fought alongside those who did.”

Fleche’s gaze lowers. “And we probably killed people that were important to you too.”

Catherine doesn’t say a word, but when she blinks, the image of Rhea—Seiros, then, green hair unbound and temper unrestrained, golden wings sprouting from her head—covered in blood flashes through her mind. It doesn’t hurt as much as she expects it to. A hand clutches at her arm for support, for strength, and she knows without looking that it’s Cyril.

Fleche tugs at a ponytail. “Thank you for helping me. I never got to say so earlier.”

“Ah, well—Shamir insisted.”

Fleche smiles—it’s sad and, beneath that, still angry, but it’s also full and genuine. “Thank you all, then,” she says with a bow. “It felt good to fight alongside someone again.”

“It did,” Shamir allows. “Look after your mother.”

“I have been, trust me.” Fleche laughs, weak but approaching her prior cheerfulness, then ducks her head in a makeshift bow once more. “Again, thank you. And—goodbye. At least for now.”

They watch her go, just another ambling silhouette against the horizon line, head bent forward and tears still ringing in Catherine’s ears but shoulders broad and strong.

Cyril is the one to first speak up: “Will she be all right, do you think?” _Will we?_ goes unspoken.

The wind picks up, blowing Shamir’s hair into her eyes. She brushes it aside with a tight expression. “Who can say,” she says, tone and face making it clear that her response is to both the verbal and nonverbal question.

Without waiting so much as another beat, she climbs back onto her horse and steers them back onto the path.

*

Come nightfall, they make camp at the edge of Aegir territory, on the cusp of the small mountains running through this area. Catherine joins Shamir on watch with nary a word. Tension is still rolling inside Cyril’s innards, but he settles down without arguing, figuring that sleep will relieve at least some of his troubles.

He doesn’t get the chance to find out. Before long, he’s cracking open an eye at the sound of Catherine’s voice. It’s dark, but he can make out their shadows against the sky, both facing forward. Cyril brings himself up to a half-sitting position and blinks the bleariness away. The bedroll is kind enough to not creak beneath him. Mehr’s snout rustles against his hair, but he shushes her as quietly as he can.

Catherine mutters something, too quiet and distant for Cyril to discern any real words. Her voice rises when she asks, “Did I do the right thing today?”

“You’ve never been one much to care about that,” says Shamir, matter-of-fact. “Only what Rhea thought was right.”

“I guess that’s true.” Catherine laughs, a bit self-deprecating (something Cyril hadn’t known she could express), and brings her legs up to her chest. Shamir twists her head toward her and then looks away again. “I guess your driveling about gray morality and all that has gotten to me.”

“Then why would you think I would know?”

“Uh—I don’t know. I just—” Catherine turns, and only when she’s not looking at Shamir does Shamir look back. “You seemed pretty good with her,” she says, unsubtly changing the subject. “But you’ve always been good with kids. And young adults, I guess.”

“Have I.”

“Yeah. You know, Flayn—” they both flinch “—Cyril, Lysithea—I guess all of the other students too. You were _understanding_ with them, at least. More so than I think most people would expect you to be.”

Shamir exhales and turns to face ahead just as Catherine glances her way. “I don’t dislike children,” she says, mild. “They’re less complicated than many adults, which makes them easier to get along with. They’re usually happier too.”

“Hmm.” There’s a smile in Catherine’s voice. “Is that why, after hard missions, you used to stand in the marketplace and watch the villagers’ kids play?”

Shamir scoffs, almost reflexive. “I didn’t think you paid attention to things like that.”

“If it were anyone else, probably not. But I think that was one of the first times I saw you smile.” Catherine’s head bows forward, and again, Shamir curves toward her. A fox and a rabbit driving each other in circles, though Cyril isn’t sure which is which—or which one is chasing which.

There’s a brief pause. Shamir looks back up to the sky, where the stars are clear and bright. “You did the Catherine thing.”

“…What?”

“In response to your earlier question, about doing the right thing. You did the _Catherine_ thing.”

Catherine tugs her fingers through her hair. “And is that good or bad?”

“You tell me,” says Shamir with a shrug.

It isn’t a question, but after a moment, Catherine answers: “I’d like it to be good. I was talking out of my ass, mostly.” Shamir is quiet, which Catherine seems to take as a cue to continue speaking, albeit in a softer voice, so faint that Cyril has to strain his ears to hear. “I really was considering letting her kill me.”

Shamir’s shoulders tighten up, as do Cyril’s. “Catherine—”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna do down with a fight. I don’t want to die, and any other time, I would’ve fought her tooth and fucking nail right from the start.” Catherine dips her chin. “But I was thinking about Rhea.”

“No ‘Lady,’” Shamir notes. “You called her that earlier, too.”

Catherine takes a resigned breath. “Yeah. If I’m going to start thinking of her as a person, as just Rhea—” it sounds like a foreign word on her tongue, though she’s growing more comfortable the more she repeats it “—I’ll start with the title.”

Cyril watches as Shamir opens her mouth and shuts it again, not one to mince words nor use unnecessary ones. Her shoulders lower. “What were you thinking about her?”

“I don’t know. Nothing specific, really, because it’s hard to think all that clearly when somebody has a spear to your heart. Just that I understood Fleche’s grief and desire for revenge. And—subconsciously, somewhere, I guess I was thinking about being able to join Rhea.” Catherine laughs, chagrined. “You wouldn’t understand that, though. You don’t think there’s anything after death, right?”

“Not particularly. But I understand the sentiment of wanting to be reunited with the dead.” A bitter, understated sort of laughter enters Shamir’s voice. “As you said, a piece of my heart is still in Dagda.”

“I said that?”

Shamir runs a hand across the back of her neck. “A long time ago. You were drunk, so I doubt you’d remember.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Catherine rests her head against her knees. Cyril can’t tell if her tone is remorseful or just wondering. “I don’t really know what to do without Rhea’s ideals to guide me. For so many years, she was my compass—and now that she’s gone—” her voice cracks “—it’s hard. I want to do the right thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever known what that really is.”

“Sometimes there isn’t one right thing to do.” Shamir readjusts her legs beneath her, as restless as Cyril has ever seen her. “Act and figure it out later. We aren’t the kind of people made for regret.”

“Don’t lump me in with you,” mutters Catherine, rubbing her forehead, but she doesn’t seem too irritated. Cyril is, for a moment, reminded of their old banter, back-and-forth exchanges even in the heat of battle; there’s something more muted about them now, but he can almost see the bandaged bond between them—not perfect nor whole, but being repaired. Something in him unwinds. “How long will it be before we get to Enbarr?”

“So long as there are no further unexpected detours—” Cyril swallows a snort “—it should only be a few more days. A week and a half at most, I’d say.”

“Well, then, I’m glad I’m not dead. I have to leave something for Hubert to guillotine.” Shamir starts to speak, but Catherine interrupts, “Don’t say he isn’t going to guillotine me, because you don’t fucking know for sure. I don’t think even that bastard knows. He’s just going to make it up when we get there.”

They look at each other, catching each other’s gazes for the first time. Though it’s hard to tell, Cyril thinks they’re smiling. What little he can see of their faces looks eight years younger.

He lies back down, folds his hands over his stomach, and tries to sleep through the rush of thoughts in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fleche's scene here was actually one that was not planned for in my original outline -- i knew roughly what i wanted to happen with catherine and cyril, but it wasn't until i was already into, like, chapters 5-9 that it really hit me. i love the cf npcs and wish they got more screentime, especially with fleche's minor but impactful role in am. so this whole chapter ended up being something that was conceptualized very late but turned out to be one of my favorites!
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! _next time_ : a proposal and a partnership. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are, as always, very appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	13. you've always known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter thirteen: brief violence and death.
> 
> chapter title from "quinine" by dessa. enjoy! :-)

For the better part of six days, Shamir marches on, the silence underlaid with tension but approaching something comfortable. They sleep as late as they can and wake even earlier, keeping to a firm routine. Stealth and speed are balanced as well as Shamir can manage, though she prioritizes the former whenever possible.

Though Shamir is more on guard than she has been for the past few weeks (which is, she must admit, saying something), nothing out of the ordinary occurs on their winding trip between the clusters of mountains bridging Aegir and Hresvelg. The stretch of land is barren and empty, unappealing to most animals. Not so much as a merchant appears.

Cyril does spend a few hours pointing out different birds of prey flying past. Catherine is more unnerved than he is by being circled by a kettle of vultures, but Shamir listens with faint interest to his casual discussion of the bearded vulture’s survival tactics.

From there, a day’s journey separates Enbarr from the first curves of the river on Hresvelg territory. Their first step onto Hresvelg land is somehow palpable. Something in the air, perhaps, or a shift in the soil beneath their boots; no matter what it may be, something lets them know: _They’re almost there_.

It should be at least a little relieving. To say nothing of Catherine and Cyril’s experiences, Shamir will emerge from this journey with one more scar marking her side and likely another several years knocked off her lifespan, short as she had predicted it would be to begin with. (She’ll be thirty-two this year. She’s still not sure what to think about that.) She’ll get paid, she’ll part from Catherine and Cyril, she’ll either take up another job for Edelgard and Hubert or take to traveling. She’s not done with her mission yet, so this is the only way in which she can think of her near future: A set of vague aspirations paired with inevitable truths.

However, when thinking of her mission’s near end, something approaching nervousness instead creeps over Shamir, a cold feeling that makes her heart beat faster than she’d ever thought possible. She’s not had a _good_ time, but she supposes she’s gotten more used to this routine than expected. Even when she’s spent this long ignoring them, old familiar patterns have sneaked back up on her.

She ignores her feelings as best she can. She _is_ still on a mission, and therefore, she has no reason to pay them any heed. She keeps her attention on the road ahead, on her targets, on their mounts. Anything to keep from thinking about the absence of those she never should have allowed so close in the first place.

As soon as they leave Aegir, she informs Catherine and Cyril of her plans for the last leg of the journey: It’ll take a few days to get through Hresvelg territory, then they’ll camp outside Enbarr instead of charging right into the Imperial palace at an hour so ungodly that not even those who had toppled the Church and killed its goddess would be awake. (Or at least that Shamir wouldn’t want to bother with them then. She’s certain Hubert, at least, doesn’t stick to any sort of strict sleep schedule, Edelgard and Ferdinand’s interventions notwithstanding.)

They take the information with grace. Cyril seems quieter after their encounter with Fleche, and although Shamir feels him watching her throughout the days and nights, she doesn’t push it. Catherine’s side glances are less blatant, though her stretches of silence have become more common than they once were. They both have much to think about, Shamir decides, so she leaves them to their introspection more days than not.

As predicted, night is falling by the time they reach the outskirts of Enbarr. Shamir chooses a place where trees and buildings will obscure them from all directions; the city is still alight even as the sky darkens, travelers and locals alike bustling about. The distant shadow of the palace seems to glow against the horizon.

They set up camp quickly. They’ll be gone soon enough that making a neat, complex camp is unnecessary and impractical. The process is clipped and quiet, save Catherine’s occasional swears, and they settle down around a meager fire in something of a daze.

Invisible nooses of tension loop around them, tight enough to apply pressure without being suffocating, just enough to remind one of their uncomfortable presence. No one is willing to address the elephant of tomorrow’s events. They eat in the most uncomfortable silence they’ve experienced all week. The meat is overcooked; Shamir doesn’t point it out, keeping her eyes on the ground so as to avoid a game of eye contact tag.

Even the animals seem on edge. Mehr’s tail drags along the ground when Cyril feeds her, and the horses are more resistant than usual when Shamir sets them up off to the side of the camp, near where she’ll keep watch. When Catherine and Cyril are too busy stoking the fire to look, Shamir rations out a few of Ferdinand’s treats. Chestnut snaps them up so fast her teeth graze Shamir’s gloved fingers, and Shamir allows her a chiding smile and a pat to the cheek.

Just as Shamir has stepped back over, Catherine calls her name.

Shamir comes to a halt. She looks over her shoulder to find Catherine standing, leaving Cyril to poke at the flames with a resigned expression on his face. They stand there for a beat, the short distance between them feeling much larger, before Shamir brings herself to say, “Yes?”

Though spurred by the prompt, Catherine takes a moment to respond. She smooths a hand over the back of her neck—an obvious tell of her nerves and hesitation, almost deliberate. “Can we talk? Not here,” she adds at once. “Uh, maybe back there somewhere?” She gestures toward a copse of trees at Shamir’s back.

Shamir is tempted to answer almost embarrassingly quickly, but she presses her lips together and focuses on Cyril first. He tries to ignore her attention at first. After a moment, he realizes she isn’t going to give up and straightens his shoulders.

“I’ll stay awake and keep watch for now,” he tells her, letting the flames die out enough to be quieter while still casting an appropriate amount of light. “But it isn’t like anybody is gonna sneak up on us right out here, is it?”

“I doubt it, but you still shouldn’t let down your guard,” says Shamir. “It is Fódlan.”

With a grimace, Cyril nods. “I’ll be careful.”

“Right. If we aren’t back in an hour—” which Shamir doubts, but the intense look on Catherine’s face gives her pause, as does her ever-present realism “—then sleep. The horses and wyvern will startle if anything happens, and you need rest for tomorrow.”

“I was planning on that anyway,” says Cyril, blinking in a way that makes her believe it.

Impressed, Shamir nods. Catherine is already moving, brushing past without looking back to see if Shamir is following—a show of age-old arrogance, though Catherine is too restless to pull it off. Shamir throws Cyril another shrewd look, to which he responds with a shaky but genuine smile that catches her more off-guard than anything.

She turns and hurries to catch up with Catherine. Catherine’s legs are longer than hers, but Shamir is just as fast, keeping a measured distance as they stride through the trees. It doesn’t escape her that for once, she’s the one following in Catherine’s lead.

They stop a respectable distance away from the camp, Catherine halting first and Shamir following suit a couple of feet back. Catherine turns to face her but says nothing. Neither seems to so much as breathe for a moment. The night is still around them, the humidity of the day giving way to the mild air of the evening, too late to be warm but too early to be cold and left somewhere in between. It’s neither uncomfortable nor comfortable—it just _is_.

Instead of asking aloud what Catherine had wanted to discuss, Shamir quirks her head. Catherine seems to understand. She still pauses instead of answering, huffing out a mechanical whir of breath. The edges of her silhouette seem to glow against the sky. Her lips are bloodied and peeling from biting at them throughout dinner, and her expression is tight with an expression Shamir can’t pin down.

She’s still not quite used to that. It makes sense, but it’s still disquieting; Shamir strives for a sense of control in most areas of her life, and being unable to read Catherine when she’d had it down to an art for years makes her unsteady.

They watch each other, unsure both who is the fox and who will make the first move. Then, at last, Catherine speaks.

“You’ve been upfront of where we’re going as part of this whole—thing.” She wiggles her hands unceremoniously to illustrate the concept of _this thing_ , and, blinking, Shamir nods. “But what happens after?”

“After?” Shamir repeats.

Catherine scratches at the back of her neck, unkempt hair sifting through her fingers. “After we get to Enbarr and speak with Edelgard. Assuming we’re—” she gestures between herself and the vague direction their camp and, by extension, Cyril are in “—still alive. What happens next?”

Shamir doesn’t bother to address the notion of their deaths. “That is your decision and yours alone. And it should only be made after actually hearing what Edelgard has to say.”

“Well, yeah. I was going to talk to Cyril later.” Catherine’s lips form a flat line as she tugs at her collar. In their silence, a cool breeze has picked up, stirring the leaves around them, so it can’t be dismissed as from the heat of the environment. “But what about you?”

Shamir’s brow furrows. “What about me? You don’t need to repeat yourself, I understood,” she cuts in when Catherine’s mouth parts. Catherine’s jaws close again, and Shamir crosses her arms. “What happens to me shouldn’t be your concern. It is not even my concern either, given that my mission—my job, really—isn’t over.”

“Fixated on your job as always,” mutters Catherine.

“It’s all that I can be.” If Shamir’s tone is frayed, then she’ll blame it on the dry weather. “Just as you pledged your heart and sword to Rhea as a Knight of Seiros, I’ve pledged my life and bow to my work as a mercenary.”

That takes Catherine a second, but she shakes her head. “Maybe not the best comparison.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, no.” Catherine shifts on her feet, dragging a hand through her hair and making it even messier. “You’ve pledged yourself to a career—I pledged myself to a person. One of those things is liable to change.”

“Careers change as well,” says Shamir with a shrug. “Look at Leonie. She’s a far different mercenary than I am. And besides, most mercs out there will end up pledging themselves to people before long, even if those arrangements aren’t as—” she takes a moment to consider “—binding.”

“But you weren’t loyal to Rhea in the same way I was,” insists Catherine, and Shamir doesn’t protest—she’s said as much herself plenty of times. Catherine steps back with a sigh. “I loved her. I still do, honestly—a part of me always will, even though I know a lot of what she did wasn’t all that great. Cyril’s role at the monastery, the Crests, Fhirdiad—” She shakes her head. It doesn’t escape Shamir’s notice that she doesn’t mention what Rhea had done to her directly, years of manipulation and commendation for her unthinking, unconditional trust. “I know that, really, but some part of me still…”

“I don’t understand that,” Shamir says bluntly. “But I suppose I’ve only truly loved one person in that sense, and our circumstances were much different.”

Catherine’s expression softens. “Your last partner, yeah?”

“Yes.” Shamir’s mentions of them had been sparing, unwilling to share so much unsolicited (or even prompted), but it seems they’d been enough for Catherine to get the gist. She taps her necklace. “I will never forget them, but I doubt I could be satisfied with that sort of unrequited devotion.”

“Yeah, well—” Catherine doesn’t seem to have a proper response to that. She rubs at her jaw, adjusting it with a _click_. “I don’t know. She’s far from the only person I’ve ever loved, and I knew she’d never reciprocate—I was a teenager when we met, and anyway, she was the _archbishop_ of the Church of Seiros—no way in hell that would work out, logically thinking.” She laughs, more self-deprecating than anything. “But maybe that was comforting in and of itself. I’m not exactly the kind of person suited for rejection.”

Shamir can’t help a snort. An understatement, in her opinion.

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But something that’s doomed from the start—that’s different, you know?” With a pained look, Catherine inhales, letting her question stay rhetorical—they both know that Shamir does, in fact, not know. “Which is why I hate saying this. What if we kept traveling together after this?”

For the first time all day—all week, all month, all year (well, maybe not that last one)—Shamir falters. It takes her a full minute to process the statement, and when she does, she freezes in place.

She stares. Catherine looks—uncomfortable, but not regretful, more embarrassed by the offer than anything. She doesn’t move to take it back—she doesn’t move to say anything at all, only looking right back at Shamir with a poor attempt at the same neutrality Shamir is a master at projecting, fidgeting and twitching too much to be any good at it.

“What?” Shamir brings herself to ask, blood rushing to her face. She’d known Catherine had been deep in thought the past few days, but not about _this_ of all things.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured you’d say.” Laughter bubbles through Catherine’s grimace, restrained and quiet. “But I just wanted to bring it up. I mean, I haven’t talked it over much with Cyril yet, just mentioned it sorta hypothetically the other night when we were on watch together, but I do think he wants to keep traveling, whether on his own or with, well, us, so it might be—”

“Why would you want to do that?” interrupts Shamir, tone mesa-flat. “I’m not one to hold grudges, but you are. And I did try to kill you.” Nothing all too significant to her, but Catherine had taken it far more personally.

“Hey, I tried to kill you right back!” Catherine laughs again—a clear nervous habit, one Shamir doesn’t think she’d ever been prone to in the past. “And, well, things aren’t _perfect_ now—yeah, yeah, another understatement—but they’re changing, aren’t they? Like I told you, I trust you, at the very least. Despite everything, I like traveling with you. Maybe that’s just habit at this point, but—”

Shamir grasps for some sort of steady ground. If being unable to read Catherine had made her feel slightly off-kilter, this conversation is like being thrown underwater. “Do you even want to continue traveling?”

“I doubt I’m going to have much of a choice, since it’s not like I’m going to go back to Charon—” Catherine gags, and Shamir is inclined to agree “—or Garreg Mach, but I can’t say the idea isn’t appealing. I’ve always been something of a free spirit. And I _have_ been told that there are places worth seeing beyond Fódlan.”

“And to bring you back to your earlier question: What about me?” Disregarding the last comment, Shamir curls her fingers against her upper arm. “What if I’ve realized the appeal of a steady permanent home and plan on no longer traveling the globe?”

Catherine’s gaze is far too knowing for her own good. “Have you?”

Shamir doesn’t let herself falter this time. “I haven’t decided yet. My focus at the moment is—”

“—me and Cyril,” finishes Catherine, spreading her arms in a shrug. “Dress it up however you’d like, Shamir, but isn’t that what it amounts to?”

To her dismay, Shamir can’t muster up any real ire, opening her mouth and then closing it for lack of a retort. She takes a breath and glances skyward. “I haven’t planned anything. I’m still on a mission—”

“It’ll be over in less than twelve hours.”

“—and there are other considerations to be made,” continues Shamir, electing to ignore Catherine’s interruption, true as it may be.

“Yeah, and we can figure it out along the way.” Catherine grins, a mirror of Cyril’s earlier smile but lacking in any of its hesitation. There is still dried blood around her mouth, lips chapped and dry, but nothing takes away from the brightness and earnestness radiating from her face. “Don’t you trust me? I know you keep saying you can’t yet, but _can’t_ and _don’t_ are different words.”

Shamir looks away before she can admit to anything. “I still have debts that need to be repaid here,” she says, although she doesn’t, not with Rhea dead and her alliance with Edelgard and Hubert contract-bound.

Catherine’s smile dims somewhat as she steps into her space. Her eyes are lit so brightly it borders on malevolent, a wildfire of emotions. She’s close enough that were she anyone else, Shamir would recoil—she considers it anyway, though only for an instant before she sighs, faint enough to be lost in the wind.

When Catherine speaks, it is low: “Then repay them.”

And, well, Shamir has always preferred actions to words.

She kisses her.

It’s brief and unremarkable, the ghost of a proper kiss. Shamir steps back after a second passes, then reconsiders and leans back in, this time no better: More of a haphazard mashing of lips than a real kiss, too hurried and impassioned—so uncharacteristic of Shamir—to be any good.

Despite her goading, Catherine stumbles backward in surprise. She recovers fast enough to pull Shamir with her, firm hands on her shoulders and head bent to meet her halfway. Shamir nudges her farther back toward the trunk of a tree. Their lips part as they move, but it takes only a second of readjustment before Shamir leans back up with her hands on Catherine’s waist.

For all that the situation is new, it feels like Shamir has done it dozens of times before. In a dream, waking or otherwise; in a forged memory long since vanquished to the recesses of her mind; in a past life or a hundred of them, because as little as Shamir thinks about what lies beyond the purported veil, if there is some cycle of death and rebirth in wait, she can only hope that some variants of the two of them have experienced this. The world is matter and energy recycled, a neverending cycle of eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth—they are reused stardust reunited only to collide.

But these thoughts are irrelevant—and too metaphysical besides—so Shamir dismisses them as she presses up. One hand settles on Catherine’s warm cheek as her torso molds against hers. Their mouths stay closed, out of fear of pushing it too far more so than anything else.

There is no elegance to this except for the quiet grace with which they arch toward one another. The difference in their heights is just drastic enough to make things uncomfortable, though they both work to overcome it to the best of their combined ability. They’ve always worked well together, after all—Shamir smiles against Catherine’s lips at the thought.

A breath, a minute, an hour. Shamir knows not how much time passes with the two of them standing there, neither willing to go further but neither wanting to pull apart either.

Finally, Catherine breaks away to say, “Shamir—”

Already having made a fool of herself, Shamir takes the opportunity to catch her breath, inhaling and exhaling as she shuts her eyes. “I know,” she says before Catherine can continue. “We should discuss this at greater length.”

That makes Catherine laugh, just a breathless little huff above Shamir’s ear. “I—yeah, honestly, but that’s definitely not what I was going to say yet. Is this the part where I find out you treat relationships like contracts?”

“I don’t.” Shamir hesitates. “At least, not with you.”

A long stretch of silence ensues. Normally something like that would be comforting, but from Catherine—and now, of all times—it’s more unnerving than pleasant. Shamir opens her eyes to find Catherine only staring at her, gaze enraptured.

“What?”

Catherine covers her eyes with one hand. “Just— _fuck_. You can’t say shit like that out of nowhere,” she manages, voice bordering on a whine, and upon squinting, Shamir can make out a dark flush in her cheeks. “I don’t expect it from you.”

Shamir’s mouth twitches into a smile, if only because Catherine isn’t looking at her. “It’s the truth. You insisted on us continuing to travel together, at any rate.” She keeps her tone neutral—she needn’t give any implication of her answer when even she hasn’t allowed herself to consider the possibility. “Should I continue the thread by suggesting we wed?”

The other hand comes up to cover Catherine’s entire face. “Please. Stop.”

“Right.” Ignoring her heart rate, Shamir leans back, letting the night air wash over her skin. “But we should air out anything left.”

“Anything left,” Catherine repeats dully.

Shamir doesn’t acknowledge it. “There’s a practice in some areas of Dagda, picked up from eastern immigrants some decades back.” Her accent, subtle but present, slips back into her voice as she mulls over what the phrasing would be in Dagdan and translates it. “When pieces of pottery are broken and repaired, the cracks are repainted in gold. Imperfections are not hidden but highlighted.”

“Is that what this is? Highlighting our flaws?”

“Maybe.” Shamir shrugs. “I’m not poetic enough to consider it any further. For better or worse, we have history, and I don’t see the point in ignoring it.”

“ _For better or worse_ … there you go again.”

Shamir blinks. “What—? Oh, that is part of a Fódlan wedding vow, isn’t it.”

Catherine glares, but the blow is softened by Shamir’s genuine lack of intention, and she looks down, one hand coming to rest on her hip. “I don’t see any reason to ignore our history, either. We were friends and partners once. Then our paths diverged, as we—mostly you—always expected them to. We fought. Neither of us would take any of that back even if we could. Is that all fair?”

“Oversimplified, but accurate enough.” Shamir pinches the bridge of her nose. “We can discuss it more tomorrow, when we know more about what is happening, and we can talk it over with Cyril too. But—things will be difficult, even if we go forward without regrets.”

“Haven’t they always been?”

Shamir’s eyes lower to the ground. Catherine places a hand on her shoulder, and it’s the steadiest Shamir has felt tonight. For once, it seems Catherine has picked up on Shamir’s principle of tactical silence. She says nothing more, only stroking a subconscious pattern into Shamir’s arm.

They study each other in the darkness. While the fervent spark of earlier hasn’t faded altogether, they’re both weary, and the faintest threads of anxiety linger in Catherine’s eyes. So Shamir steps forward again, and instead of reinitiating their kiss, she guides Catherine into a careful embrace. Catherine’s arms wrap around her, sturdy but open enough that Shamir can withdraw.

She doesn’t. “I overlooked something,” she says, “when I said I had only loved one person.” Her head lowers toward Catherine’s shoulder. “There have been two. Part of my heart will always be in Dagda, but another—” She raises a hand, aiming for Catherine’s chest to splay across her thrumming heart. Catherine catches her midway to entangle their fingers. Her palm is warm but rough against Shamir’s, scars providing a tactile map of her history. “I don’t think I need to say it.”

“You don’t need to,” says Catherine, soft and quiet as a breath. “But all the same, I think I’d like to hear it.”

“I know.” Shamir’s vocal cords almost seem to physically restrict her from saying more. Dagdan has many terms to express love, a word and phrase for all kinds—she had never spoken them to her past partner, thinking them unnecessary. That, Shamir supposes, is her one and only regret. Old patterns are bound to repeat themselves, but still, she sighs. “Someday.”

“I understand.” With an exhale, Catherine settles her free hand on the side of Shamir’s neck, sliding it down toward the junction between her throat and shoulder. “As for now—isn’t silence far more your thing, anyway?”

“It is,” says Shamir, already leaning up.

The moon shines above, bright and waxing. Perhaps it will never reach the end of its road to becoming whole; perhaps broken things cannot piece themselves back together like the reshaping of the moon against the darkness and stars.

But without trying, one can never know.

*

Two months after they’d met, Catherine and Shamir had been sent off on their first mission.

They hadn’t interacted much in the interim—they’d sparred together a couple of times, with mixed results, but Catherine had had yet to convince Shamir to take lunch together or have drinks with some of their comrades. Shamir had still needed time to recover and readjust to living in Fódlan and being a Knight of Seiros (in name only).

From their sparse time together, Shamir had gotten a decent read off of Catherine: Talkative, self-aggrandizing, cocky, optimistic, and powerful. Whether she could walk the walk, Shamir hadn’t yet known.

The mission itself had been simple: Rout some bandits. Nothing either hadn’t done before, but they hadn’t yet been able to see how they would work together outside of a training setting. Shamir hadn’t been looking forward to it, but it was her mission, and she would be remiss not to follow orders.

The town hadn’t been far from Garreg Mach, only separated by the journey of a few hours into Empire territory. Along the way, Catherine had been less talkative than usual, sharpening her sword with a whetstone to fill the silence rather than asking Shamir questions about things she’d refused to talk about for every day of the two months they’d known each other. Even if it was rooted in anxiety about the battle ahead, Shamir had appreciated it.

Once they’d arrived, Shamir had surveyed the town (battlefield, now) from afar. The bandits had already made quick work of the town, ransacking homes and businesses and, likely the reason they’d been sent to intervene, the church. Although Catherine had looked ready to storm in with her sword blazing, Shamir had caught her by the elbow.

“Wait,” she’d said. “If you do that, you’re setting us up for an ambush.”

Blinking, Catherine had shaken her arm loose, more on instinct than any sense of defiance. “What the hell are you talking about? We can see all of the bandits from here,” she’d said, thankfully keeping her voice down. “They’re all inside the town. If we go down the hill this way, we’ll be able to ambush _them_.”

“Are you sure about that?”

At Catherine’s continued confusion, Shamir had inclined her head toward the east and west. On either side of the town, there had been smattered reinforcements. Shamir had been willing to place bets that there was a stronghold somewhere not far in the distance.

Catherine had had to squint, but once she’d seen the additional bandits, she’d backed up. “Huh. If we charge in,” she’d conceded, “it’ll put both us and the townspeople in danger. But if this goes on much longer—” she’d eyed the extent of the damage so far, doors kicked in and people shuddering outside their homes “—then there won’t be any townspeople to _put_ in danger. So what else are we meant to do?”

Instead of answering, Shamir had beckoned Catherine back—or at least as far back as their position allowed—and drawn her bow. She’d let the wind wash over her for a second, observing the battlefield below. Her stance and the angle of her bow had fallen into place with a couple of careful blinks. Now this, Shamir had thought with the ghost of a smile, was more her speed.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d fired off at the reinforcements around the town’s borders, moving quickly but deliberately to take out as many as possible as fast as possible. In the space of as many heartbeats, the three on the east had been taken care of. Four more on the west went down in another.

“Shit,” Catherine had muttered, and Shamir had glanced back to find her mouth agape with something between bemusement and awe. “You’re a sniper.”

“What did you _think_ I did?” Shamir hadn’t been able to help herself from asking, giving Catherine a sharp look over her shoulder. She’d shaken her head when Catherine hadn’t answered aside from a sour look. “And now we charge. You’re the vanguard; I’ll provide cover from the rear.”

Catherine had nodded, wide eyes clearing of amazement to make way for business. She’d outright launched herself down the hill, storming straight past the already fallen bandits to cry, her booming voice employed to her advantage, “Hey! Get out of this damn town, or we’ll _make_ you get out of this damn town!”

Announcing one’s presence, Shamir had thought, was the worst thing any self-respecting sniper could do. But then, Catherine hadn’t been anything close to a sniper. And besides, it had given her the opportunity to strike a bandit in the side when he’d prompted, _“We?”_

After that, the battle had gone by in what would later be presented by Catherine as a few seconds but was closer to fifteen-odd minutes. It had been a whirlwind of action: Catherine charging straight in with her sword, Crest flaring with each swing; and Shamir, hanging back from her vantage point above, providing support with careful maneuvers and joining the battle with a lance when it became too much of a tightrope to walk. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, weaving around one another and warning each other of approaching enemies with words and looks alike. Though she’d not let her mind wander in combat, once she’d caught her breath, Shamir had thought, _Maybe this partnership won’t be so bad after all._

They’d operated alone for the most part, not physically back-to-back but feeling the implication of supporting each other. The bandits’ leader, though, they’d taken on together, side-by-side, Shamir’s lance chipping away at his sides and Catherine’s sword gleaming as she’d brought it down. A short but messy fight. Something that had made Shamir remember what it was like to _live_ rather than _survive_.

The townspeople—not least the head of the small congregation—hadn’t been able to thank them enough. Catherine had laughed them off and said, “Hey, we’re just doing our job. Thank Lady Rhea for sending us out this way.”

Still, they’d insisted on providing gold and supplies in addition to Rhea’s reward. Catherine had tried to decline, saying that the good deed was enough, but even she hadn’t been able to cloak the gleam in her eye. Shamir had been quick enough to accept in her stead. The sooner she could pay off her debt to the archbishop (monetary or otherwise), the better.

Catherine had given her a look for it, but she hadn’t been able to object with her sword still buried in the chest of the bandits’ leader.

Once the townspeople had cleared off, Shamir had returned her lance to her side and crossed her arms. She’d hummed loud enough to make Catherine glance her way. “You’re pretty skilled after all.”

Drawing her sword out, Catherine had snorted. Blood had seeped onto the grass beneath the dead bandit, who’d confirmed Shamir’s suspicions of a hideout with his dying breath, knowledge that she’d pass onto Rhea. In the meantime, she hadn’t concerned herself with it. The town hadn’t seemed to be at risk of any further danger, and though she couldn’t rule out the possibility that she’d failed to take care of a lookout, there was nothing she could do at the time being.

“Of course I am,” Catherine had said with a grin, flexing her muscles for effect. “Did you think it was all just talk? I’m a Knight of Seiros, after all.”

“Knights love the sound of their own voice,” Shamir had said without so much as blinking. “I didn’t think you’d be any different.”

With a scoff, Catherine had resheathed her sword, uncaring of the blood staining its once-shiny blade. “You just say whatever you feel like, don’t you?”

“I say what needs to be said. Nothing less, nothing more.”

“Are all Dagdans as straightforward as you?”

“Find out yourself sometime,” Shamir had said—it was a better answer than simply _No_ or _Is everyone in Fódlan as self-righteous and headstrong as you?_ The latter, she’d already known the answer to.

“Maybe I will,” Catherine had said, saying it like a taunt rather than a straightforward (and predictable) answer. “I don’t plan on leaving Fódlan anytime soon, though, so I’ll have to meet them here.”

Shamir had shrugged, not bothering to point out the low potential of that. Instead, she’d held out her hand. Catherine had stared back at it, gaze flickering between it and Shamir’s face, like she either hadn’t known what the purpose of the gesture was or wasn’t sure if it was a trap or not. Shamir had exhaled and tried not to think of how much it sounded like a laugh.

“I look forward to working with you,” she’d said, pushing her hand farther out.

Any trepidation had vanished from Catherine’s expression, replaced with giddiness. “Yeah! Me too!” She’d shaken Shamir’s hand, warmth spreading through their gloves, with so much enthusiasm that Shamir’s fingers had ached when they dropped their hands. Yet another nail in the coffin that her boasts hadn’t just been for show.

Catherine had kept grinning, so Shamir had looked away. “You have blood on your face.”

“Ah, shit, do I? Well, I guess it just adds to my rugged good looks.” Catherine had thrown her head back with a laugh, but she’d wiped it away anyway, using the interior of her forearm instead of her hands, since her gloves had been just as bloodied. “Anyway, I guess we should be getting back now, huh, partner?”

“Sure thing, partner,” Shamir had said, even as she’d rolled her eyes.

*

It is, by all means, a peaceful day in Enbarr. The curtains in Hubert’s above-ground study are drawn, but the light of the early summer morning still bleeds in through the dark silk, casting slivers of sunlight onto his shelves and desk. Quiet birdsong rings throughout the city. Any sounds throughout the halls of the Imperial palace are subtle and harmless enough to ignore.

Most importantly to Hubert, his work is laid before him. A small candle, sparked to life by magical means, illuminates what the bits of sunlight don’t cover. Letters and books are arranged into piles some might describe as chaotic. It’s as much a safety measure as it is an organizational structure: He knows where everything is, and no one is allowed more than a step or two into his study—there are no incriminating documents here, so this is only a matter of privacy and personal health, given his nature and the multitude of unlabeled vials lining his shelves. If anything is moved so much of an inch out of place, he _will_ notice.

But all of that is incidental, and not something Hubert is concerned with at the moment. He has a different take on the concept of relaxation than many. For him, a relaxing morning involves a cup of hot coffee, writing a few thinly-veiled threats to corrupt nobles in far-flung territories, and knowing that Edelgard, Ferdinand, and the other Black Eagles are safe and sound.

Hubert exhales, basking in the peace and quiet, and dips his quill in ink. Just as he’s set his quill to the parchment, someone knocks at the door.

His gut reaction is to hiss through his teeth, a sound of frustration quiet enough to not pass through his well-padded walls. The knock hadn’t been distinct enough to be recognizable (in other words, it doesn’t belong to anyone he knows and likes—even tolerates—well enough to want to interact with), so it could be any number of people. Fódlan’s citizens are of course focused on Her Majesty and the crimson throne she’s perched upon, but his attention is not in short demand, to his displeasure.

Whoever had knocked doesn’t knock again. Not a new hire, then, aware of the fact that long silences from the Minister of the Imperial Household are not uncommon.

Hubert taps his gloved fingers against the edge of his desk while he weighs the pros and cons. He’s not in the middle of anything _too_ important, loathe as he is to admit it, and the use of force if necessary is acceptable.

“Yes?” he calls.

The door opens with a creak. Remaining seated, Hubert takes a moment to adjust to the small amount of light from the hallway. In walks an unremarkable page, already deep in a bow—someone Hubert has interacted with on a base level before, but not so much as to have memorized details like their knock.

“Sorry to interrupt, Lord Vestra, sir,” they say, peeking up through their bangs. “Are you busy, sir?”

Hubert sighs under his breath and pushes his chair back from his desk. “Clearly not, if I’ve allowed your presence. Speak.”

The page doesn’t so much as falter under his candlelit glare. Hubert is a little impressed, but he doesn’t bother showing it as they respond, “Yes, sir. Visitors have arrived. Sir Shamir has returned with the associates of the Church. She said that you and Her Majesty would request their presence. They are waiting at the palace gates now, sir.”

Hubert glances to the blank sheet of parchment before him, overlapping the letter he’s replying to. Shamir’s coded missives are stacked inside one of his desk drawers, phrased with Shamir’s verbal brevity and lack of intonation. He’d received his latest message—telling of Shamir and her targets’ departure from Aegir, a journey also briefly recounted in a letter from Ferdinand that had arrived a day before—three days ago. It seems Shamir is as efficient as ever.

With only a brief pause, Hubert sets his quill back in the inkwell and leaves the blank paper to fester. Perhaps some fresh air would do his brain well. He can spend what portions of the meeting he doesn’t spend talking brainstorming more creative insults.

“Invite them in, then. I shall personally inform Her Majesty.” He’s somewhat offended that this page had deigned him more worthy of their time than Edelgard, but he supposes that his office _is_ closer. And anyway, he’d not have them waste her time.

The page bows again. “Yes, sir,” they say before darting out, leaving the door open behind them for Hubert to follow.

Hubert rises, shaking his head, and closes and locks the door before warping to inform Edelgard of their guests’ arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the practice shamir mentions here is a reference to the japanese art of kintsugi. in case it hasn't already been made clear, i depict dagda (for lack of much canonical coding) as a nation of primarily immigrants, mainly those from fictional equivalents of east asia and the middle east -- a melting pot of sorts, in opposition to fodlan's historical isolationism.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! _next time_ ( **eta** : which will be up friday the 10th due to wrist problems! apologies for the inconvenience!): an ending and a beginning. if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are, as always, super appreciated! <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


	14. where i want to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter fourteen: discussions of manipulation, exploitation, child servitude, and racism (all fairly brief).
> 
> late, but still a day -- or a little over 12 hours -- earlier than expected! idk how many ppl saw the edited endnotes of the previous chapter, but basically: while i was preparing to make final edits, i got a migraine (not helped by fireworks) and then wrist pain that required me to rest my hands lest it turn into something more serious, so i could not mentally nor physically work for almost a week. so thank you for your patience; i hope this was worth waiting for! (especially bc i accidentally made it the longest chapter when i edited today... oops!)
> 
> chapter title from "this must be the place (naive melody)" again, though i recommend kishi bashi's cover for this chapter. also, finally, a link to [[this fic's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1YE6j2SwBN7gnc2kdK4yNj?si=cGJUwK8GQDeGN-AHcRXY9Q)]. enjoy!

Cyril wakes with the dawn.

He isn’t awake before either Catherine or Shamir—who had returned to camp just after their allotted hour had ended and Cyril had settled into his bedroll, too tired to offer so much as a greeting—but their backs are both to him as they sit around the fire, long since snuffed out. They aren’t speaking, but their heads are bent together. While he has the opportunity, Cyril spends a moment watching the sun crest over the hills. The rest of Fódlan is behind them now; all that awaits them is Enbarr.

He’s had a lot of time to think lately, periods of peace and quiet throughout the days. It’s nice to have a chance to set that all aside and just watch the sunrise.

A prickling sensation fills Cyril’s limbs after a moment, and he gets up to stretch before it can seep in too far. The three of them have a quiet morning, no one moving to speak but all aware, perhaps to an unpleasant extreme, of their plans. There’s something more comfortable about Catherine and Shamir now, though Cyril isn’t awake enough to try to decipher what it is.

The sun hasn’t fully risen when they pack up their things and head, with feigned nonchalance, toward Enbarr. Catherine pats Cyril on the arm, and Cyril tries to smile back at her. Shamir leads them along the path with her shoulders steady and her breathing almost inaudible.

Then they step into the city, and Cyril’s first thought is of how _big_ it is.

He’s been in cities before, obviously, but the only other capital he’s seen is Faerghus, and that hadn’t been under the best of circumstances. The buildings are crowded together in asymmetrical patterns, but not in an uncomfortable fashion; their progression looks natural and neat, lining the streets and dotting the skyline. Statues, pillars, and other decorations litter areas in between. People—draped in colorful clothing and brandishing even more colorful goods—bustle about the sprawling streets even this early. Figures hustle in and out of doors. Everyone is of a different manner of dress and apparent status, but they intermingle like it’s nothing, striking up conversations or nodding as carriages and individual horseback riders roam the city.

More impressive are the waterways carving across the paths. The sun glistens upon the water’s surface. Though bridges cross most of the gaps, there are some open areas upon which narrow boats float, their riders steering passengers around or offering more goods to those on land and water alike.

Every part of Enbarr is gilded, alive, and it takes Cyril’s breath away.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it,” comments Shamir from behind him. “I doubt we’ll have time for a tour, though. I have a job to finish.”

It’s no less brusque than usual, so Cyril doesn’t balk, but he does tug on Mehr’s reins. “Uh, what about—?”

In response, Shamir takes them around a side street and ducks into a building with a stable to the side. Catherine and Cyril make stiff eye contact with a donkey and a long-necked creature that keeps shifting its jaws in a way that makes Cyril feel like he’s about to be spit upon or bitten. Shamir emerges with an emptier sack of gold, and a few workers come out to wrangle Mehr and the horses.

At Catherine and Cyril’s questioning looks, Shamir waves a hand. “I put them up until at least tomorrow. I get a partial refund if we leave early. They’ll be taken care of,” she assures them—Cyril in particular, who gives Mehr a reassuring smile as she’s taken off.

Without an escort, they meander about the streets. Shamir’s guidance makes it easy to navigate through the crowds, which are just thick enough to be difficult. Before long, and with a bit of convincing (all Shamir has to do is flash a wax seal upon a piece of parchment), they’ve made it up to the walkway leading to the Imperial palace.

Cyril’s breath catches once more when he sees it looming overhead. Seeing its shadow from outside is one thing—seeing it up close is another altogether. Before now, the most ornate places he’s seen have been the crumbling palace of Faerghus, the monastery cathedral, and the Goneril household, all of which pale in comparison. He doesn’t know the proper words for the architecture that composes the palace’s hulking form, but he does know that it can be described in a single word: _Impressive_.

“Wow,” he mumbles.

Catherine raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Pretty impressive,” she says with a tone of concession. “Somehow, it’s even more ostentatious than the palace in the Kingdom.”

“It was built first,” says Shamir. Not one to dawdle, she adds, “Shall we?”

Cyril’s heart pounds against his chest, but he knows now is the only opportunity he’ll get. His mouth dry, he brings himself to say, “Actually—before we go in, I wanted to talk to you guys.”

Catherine blinks. “What about?”

“Well, mostly Shamir.” Cyril drags his fingers through his hair, aware of Shamir’s attention but lack of verbal acknowledgment—par for the course. “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Sorry?” Shamir’s head tilts back. “For what?”

“…Everything?” With a shaky shrug, Cyril chews his lip, aware of the two perplexed gazes upon him. “But I guess mostly what happened at Fhirdiad and all of that. I know it was—Rhea’s orders,” he says, not expecting saying it aloud to sting as much as it does; his voice cracks, to his embarrassment. Catherine and Shamir inhale at the same time. “But—I should have listened more to Catherine. And to you. And since then, I’ve treated you real unfairly. And—I’m sorry.”

“Cyril—” Shamir looks as if she wants to crouch in front of him but catches herself, something that Cyril sighs with relief at. They’re about the same height now, after all. Instead, she closes her eyes and lowers her head. “None of that is your fault.”

“How is it not?” demands Cyril, face heating. His outburst draws the attention of the palace guards, who are still waiting by the doors a few feet away, but Shamir raises a hand to beckon them off. “I was the one who believed in Rhea. I was the one who listened to her to the point of being willing to kill you for hurting her.”

“Precisely. You’re an adult now, but when you weren’t, the adults in your life—” Shamir shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “They failed you. And I include myself in that. I left you behind,” she says, with something that isn’t quite regret.

“You’re a mercenary. That’s what you do.” Cyril crosses his arms, reflecting her typical posture. “I guess I was just a bad student.”

“You weren’t. You were determined and ambitious but still caring and compassionate, and you had the skill—or at least potential—to back all of that up.” Shamir’s eyes open, and she places a firm hand on Cyril’s shoulder. It seems to surprise her as much as it does him. She recovers soon enough, though. “I should be the one apologizing. It doesn’t come naturally to me, but—”

Cyril’s flush deepens. “You really don’t have to—”

Shamir doesn’t wait for him to finish. “You were in a poor situation, Cyril. You were an indentured child in a foreign land, and Rhea took advantage of that. And while I couldn’t have talked you into seeing that, I could have tried to help you more—I could have attempted to remove you from that situation, I could have gotten someone else to intervene. But I stood idly by while you continued to be exploited and manipulated. For that, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not your fault,” says Cyril in a numb voice.

“Maybe not. But it certainly isn’t yours. I don’t tend to have regrets. The past is the past, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.” Shamir lets her hand fall from his shoulder to wave off Catherine’s attempt to cut in. “What matters is the present, and in the present, you are struggling. I expected your pedestal to break before long, but that sensation—of losing faith in the ones who are supposed to keep you safe instead of sending you out into battle and thinking it honorable for a child to die for them—that is something I don’t understand,” she says, voice strained, “nor something I ever will. I don’t bring emotions into my line of work for that very reason.”

She hesitates, and Cyril raises his eyebrows. “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

Slow and wry, Shamir smiles. “But,” she says in agreement, “I’ve already gotten involved too much to cling to that excuse. And I still don’t think you should trust me, nor should I trust you. Not yet. But I can try to help you now, should you wish it, if only to make up for what I couldn’t do years ago.”

“I—” Cyril’s voice is quiet and stunned, and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts enough to raise it. “Thank you. Thanks, Shamir.” He turns away to wipe a tear from his face. Pride and shame are intertwined in his chest, and Catherine and Shamir both look the other way while he rides it out, presence more comforting than any awkward words could be.

When he looks back, Catherine has, to his surprise, taken Shamir’s hand in hers. To his further surprise, Shamir hasn’t brushed her off. Instead, while she blinks in the most blatant show of shock Cyril has ever seen from her, she squeezes tighter, which startles Catherine in turn.

Cyril’s earlier confusion about what had been different about them returns, this time to be solved. There is a gentle acceptance to them now, an intimacy that they hadn’t lacked years ago but hadn’t possessed to quite this extent.

The thought probably shouldn’t make him smile, but he does nonetheless. He looks away, but they still seem hyperaware of his presence and neither say nor do anything more.

The three stand there for a moment, facing the steps of the Imperial palace, feeling the rest of Fódlan at their backs. A final gust of wind rustles through their hair.

“Well,” says Catherine. “This is it.”

“This is it,” agrees Shamir.

Cyril takes a breath as Shamir begins to stride up the steps. In his pocket, he grapples for his prayer beads, cooling and calming against his fingers.

He lets his breath go, and the Imperial guards open the doors.

*

Shamir, Catherine, and Cyril are brought to a room several floors up, positioned—perhaps indivisibly—with a window to the back, though the curtains are drawn. The walls are white and the layout is similar to the room they had used for war councils at Garreg Mach. It is calm, if forcibly so.

As soon as they enter, Edelgard rises from the chair at the head of the table. Her stark white hair is pinned up, though this early in the day, she lacks the headpiece she often wears alongside the rest of her Imperial regalia. Brighter than fresh blood, her dress and cloak sweep the floor. She seems to be suppressing a smile, though her look of weary relief shines through clearly enough regardless. What little sunlight there is illuminates her from behind. An axe—plain silver—is strapped to her hip, but it looks more like decoration than an unconcealed weapon.

Behind her, Hubert—looking more alert but more subdued—meets them with only a sharp nod, far removed from Caspar’s sweeping hug and even Ferdinand’s dignified handshakes. Shamir returns it.

As if beckoned by strings, the guards exit and shut the doors behind them. The metallic _slam_ doesn’t draw more than a grimace from Shamir.

In the ensuing silence, Edelgard gestures them forth. “Come sit,” she says, not a command but no less compelling.

Her soft voice seems to take Catherine and Cyril by surprise—they exchange looks even as they move to sit beside each other at one end of the table. Shamir hovers behind the chair opposite them.

“Is it necessary for me to stay?”

“You don’t need to,” says Edelgard, “but we would appreciate it.”

Shamir glances toward Catherine and Cyril. Neither is shaking their head nor nodding toward the door, too distracted by the general air of the room, so Shamir takes the seat.

There’s a momentary pause before Hubert, too, sits, taking the seat to Edelgard’s right, on the same side of the table as Shamir but a considerable distance down from her. He folds his gloved hands on the table and turns his attention to Catherine. “I take it you received my letter,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting.

“I did,” says Catherine, mouth giving a sour twist.

Hubert leans back. “Any thoughts to share?”

“I think there are more important things to discuss right now,” is Catherine’s only reply.

Edelgard clears her throat with an only mildly apologetic look in Hubert’s direction. “That there are. Hubert, would you mind serving some glasses of water?”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” He rises once more and strides over to the corner of the room, where he fusses about preparing several glasses, which he sets before Catherine, Cyril, and Shamir. He moves with deliberate precision, almost too fast to track. Head quirked, he leans down between Catherine and Cyril. “I encourage you to drink.”

Catherine gives him a glance of justified suspicion. “These aren’t poisoned, are they?”

Hubert sighs, fetches another glass, and pours out part of Catherine’s water to pass down to Edelgard. All of his movements are careful and fully on display now. “Here, Your Majesty. A demonstration.”

Shamir has to commend his cleverness. She doesn’t know for certain if he’s developed any immunities himself, but it wouldn’t surprise her, and he takes better care of Edelgard’s health than his. Even the glass from which he takes the water is chosen to ensure the utmost caution. Shamir’s could have gone untouched. Given her height, weight, and strength, Catherine would need the highest dose of poison between her and Cyril (and her and Shamir), making it all but instantaneously lethal for Edelgard.

But Edelgard takes a long sip, not so much as blinking, and Catherine’s shoulders relax when she sets it back down. Hubert smiles and returns to his own set.

“It’s a truth serum,” Edelgard elaborates. “Highly experimental, but it won’t harm you. That is a promise.”

Shamir takes a drink, then Cyril, then Catherine. Shamir’s hands fold in her lap, mimicking Hubert’s on the table—there’s no need for honesty if she stays silent.

“Very well, then. Forgive me for my lack of pleasantries after so long, but we should get to the point.” Edelgard straightens in her seat. “Now that the war is over and your leader has fallen, what are your plans?”

Catherine is the one to speak. “We can’t swear ultimate fealty to your new Fódlan, not now and possibly not ever,” she says, her words running together but still coherent enough. Under the table, her ankles cross and uncross, boots brushing Shamir’s with each movement. “But we don’t plan on taking revenge or anything like that, if that’s what you mean. It won’t help us, and it won’t help Fódlan.”

“Do you know of any important Church leaders still alive and intent on such acts of revenge?”

“Flayn and Seteth are still around,” says Cyril, frowning, before Catherine can open her mouth. “I dunno where they went, though. They left a note—I couldn’t read it, but Catherine said it said something about not coming back for a while.”

Tension unwinds from Shamir’s shoulders. She hadn’t known what had happened to Flayn except that Byleth hadn’t killed either her or Seteth. It’s a relief to hear that, while injured and in the wind, they’re still around. The report of their disappearance had stirred plenty of thoughts of worst-case scenarios.

Hubert sits forward. “You couldn’t read it?”

“No.” Shame flickers across Cyril’s expression. “I can’t read or write, especially not in Fódlan’s language.”

“Another one of Rhea’s oversights, it seems,” says Edelgard, looking more troubled and irate than her cool tone lets on. When Cyril rubs his neck, she clears her throat. “Catherine, would you mind confirming the contents of that letter?”

“Like he said, they just told us that they were leaving and wouldn’t be seen again in our lifetimes.”

Edelgard waits, but Catherine has nothing else to add. “And that’s all?”

“That’s all. We were, for all intents and purposes, the highest-ranking members of what remained of the Church after you started your war.” Catherine’s voice isn’t as harsh as it has been every other time she’s shared this sentiment, perhaps a side effect of the truth serum—or a mark of how her views have shifted. Edelgard doesn’t move to ask anything else, so Catherine coughs. “What are you going to do with us now?”

“Well, since there’s little other useful information I can extract from you—” Hubert shuffles, and Edelgard shoots him a sharp look mid-sentence “—and you don’t plan on usurping me or anything like that… nothing.”

That gets a startled laugh out of Catherine, who pauses—for once—when everyone’s eyes fall upon her. “No, seriously. That’s a joke, right?”

“I assure you that it isn’t,” says Edelgard, brows furrowing. “There isn’t anything else we require from you. All we wished to do was talk and see what else about Rhea and her plans we hadn’t already known about—a contingency plan for her followers after her death or anything to that extent—in the event that any of it would become relevant.”

Catherine snorts again. “Well, you won’t get anything like that out of us. We might’ve been the top members of the Knights of Seiros, but that didn’t mean she told us stuff like that.”

“I see.” Something like pity flashes in Edelgard’s eyes, but it’s gone just as fast. “That will be all, then.”

Cyril straightens, blinking warily. “Wait, what? That’s all?”

“Yeah, uh—” Catherine rubs the back of her neck. “In the effort of this whole _honesty_ thing,” she says with a grimace, “I thought you were going to have us executed.”

Hubert chuckles under his breath, but Edelgard frowns. “Certainly not. What gave you that impression?”

“Well, everything we heard about you during the war, for one. Biased propaganda, in retrospect, but it leaves an impression,” says Catherine, waving a hand. Edelgard grimaces, but she nods, willing to accept that much. “And the letter your Minister of the Imperial Household over there had his boyfriend deliver to me didn’t help matters, what with all of the ominous wording.”

Edelgard turns her head, eyes narrowed with irritation but face lacking any semblance of shock. “Hubert.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he says in a droll voice. “I had to keep her in suspense, did I not?”

“No, you did not.” Edelgard folds her arms, giving him a look that says they’ll be discussing this in greater detail later, and sighs. “In any case, that was never my aim. I don’t wish to be the sort of ruler who ruthlessly crushes any dissent without a twinge of guilt, or who loses her humanity because she has become so steeped in her ideology. If people have a problem with my conduct, then I will take it upon myself to meet them head-on and accept their criticism. Unlike—well.” She taps the hilt of the axe at her side. “I suppose we needn’t speak ill of the deceased.”

“Needn’t we?” asks Hubert, but he relents with a sigh under Catherine’s sharp look.

“It’s—all right,” says Catherine, however tentative. “It’s been difficult, but I’ve come to accept Rhea’s faults, as has, I believe—” she glances over, waiting for Cyril to set his jaw and nod before continuing “—Cyril. We’ve been working on it.”

Hubert arches an eyebrow at that, surprise muted but evident—Edelgard’s is more blatant and accompanied by a half-smile. “Is that so?” she asks in a lilting voice. “We might have to have a more extensive discussion in the future, then. As of now, however, I have nothing more to tell any of you. I’d advise you to leave Fódlan for the time being, because we are still very much in the process of reworking things, but that is a mere suggestion—where you go from here is up to you. If you have nothing more to tell me, then I do believe we’re done here.”

“What, just like that?” asks Cyril.

Edelgard nods. “Just like that.”

Catherine looks ready to leave at that, but Cyril sits forward a little more. “Can… we ask questions, too?”

Edelgard and Hubert exchange startled looks, and Shamir finds herself looking over with slight surprise as well. Catherine glances between Cyril, who looks somewhat like he wants the floor to swallow him up but isn’t backtracking, and Edelgard, where her gaze settles. After a pause, Edelgard folds her hands on the table.

“All right,” she says, not bothering to hide her surprise. “This _is_ meant to be as fair and diplomatic a conversation as possible. What is it you want to ask me?”

Cyril seems to not know what to do with that, but Catherine charges ahead: “Well, for one, what happened to the professor? You all seemed pretty buddy-buddy last I checked.”

“Commander Byleth, after serving us well, left—alongside General Jeritza, I believe,” says Hubert, to Edelgard’s nod. Shamir, who had glimpsed the two of them exchanging quiet words at the celebration after Thales’s defeat, almost smiles. “I doubt they’ll be returning any time soon, though the two of them are notoriously unpredictable. A shame, too, as their talents would have served Fódlan well.”

“Huh.” Catherine looks like she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or upset.

Edelgard’s gloved fingers intertwine and raise to her chin. “Is there anything else you wish to ask of me?”

Catherine and Cyril both start to speak at the same time, words overlapping, and they stop to glance at each other. Shamir’s mouth twitches. Catherine gestures for Cyril to go first, and though he looks apprehensive still, he asks, “What’s happening with the other countries?”

Edelgard regards him with a curious expression, and it takes a moment for Shamir to decipher it, odd as it looks on Edelgard’s features—not pity, not quite anger, but empathy. It isn’t as hard to understand why. Different as their lives have been, one thing links them: They’re young, three short years separating them in age, and they’d been forced to grow up too fast. In the end, that’s what most of the Black Eagle Strike Force had been; children with adulthood thrust upon them.

Shamir can’t say she doesn’t understand. She’d been one of those, too.

“Fódlan has been going through a significant amount of reform,” says Edelgard, with an air to her that gives Shamir the impression she’s choosing her words even more carefully than usual, “and international relations are no exception. The Empire, Alliance, and Kingdom all have poor histories with foreign affairs, to say little of the Church’s traditional isolationism. The genocide of the people of Duscur. The subjugation and vassalage of Brigid. The way so many Fódlans see foreigners in general.” Edelgard shakes her head and brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “I can’t expect our horrific history to vanish overnight. But I _can_ make the future one of unity and strength regardless of national borders.

“To answer your question more directly: We’ve thus far made progress toward strengthened relations with Brigid and Almyra.” Edelgard adjusts her posture. Cyril has been listening to every word with tension in the lines of his face, which softens slightly now. “At Petra’s firm—and rightful—insistence, Brigid has gained full independence. Dorothea has taken on something of a diplomat role, though it is strictly _not_ an official job.” She smiles a little. “And the crown prince of Almyra is certainly on our side.”

Cyril frowns. “The crown prince? I knew the king had a few kids, but I can’t say I know much about him—all of ‘em, really.”

“You’re acquainted with the crown prince, in fact,” comes Hubert’s voice, never one to pass up an opportunity to sew seeds of discontent.

Edelgard gives him a look out of the corners of her eyes, but she does nod. “Yes, Prince Khalid.”

“Khalid… Khalid.” Cyril bends his head in thought, his mind working—Shamir can see the second it clicks. “You mean Claude? I—I didn’t even know he was Almyran,” he says, clasping his chin, and Catherine runs a hand through her hair beside him. “I mean, he spoke some Almyran with me once, but I figured he just knew a little ‘cause of how close the Alliance is to Almyra. It sounded weird, so I didn’t think he was fluent, but I guess that must have just been a more formal dialect.” He tugs at his collar. “That’s… huh.”

Letting him reel, Edelgard continues speaking. “With Khalid’s help, I do suspect that Fódlan-Almyran relations will have significantly improved within the next few years. He’s a very skilled speaker and tactician—” this is to a reluctant nod of concession from Hubert “—and he’s in a unique position to bring about change.”

“He’s the crown prince of Alymra,” Shamir agrees, “ _and_ the grandson of the former leader of the Leicester Alliance.”

“His heritage serves him well. I’m grateful we were able to spare him—our ideals aren’t so far apart. Byleth even asked him if he would fight alongside us after we nearly fought each other to the death,” adds Edelgard, laughing a little.

Catherine scoffs. “That sounds like them.”

Cyril, meanwhile, still seems lost in thought. “So Almyra is doing better?”

“It will, I’m sure of it.” Cyril nods, seemingly satisfied, and Edelgard takes the opportunity to nod to Catherine.

Catherine jumps before sighing and crossing her arms. “There was one question I always wanted to ask you,” she says, and Edelgard tilts her chin up, silently questioning. “Just—why?”

“ _Why?”_ repeats Hubert, incredulous.

Attention still on Catherine, Edelgard lifts a single finger in his direction. “There are, I suspect, many answers to that question,” she says, leaning back in her seat, “and I doubt many of them will satisfy you. The simplest is that things in Fódlan needed to change.

“Some have suggested to me that the best way to bring about change is to wait and go in small, slow steps that give those opposed time to adjust—or die out, with the peace that their status quo has not been usurped.” Edelgard’s lip curls in disgust. “I was—and am—incapable of agreeing. I _had_ to do something. I risked plenty with my decision—I find myself quite lucky to still be sitting here—but I would never regret it, nor most of the additional choices I’ve made along the way. Fódlan needed to change, and I could not let that decision fall into anyone else’s hands, let alone something as unreliable as fate.”

That characteristic steel flashes in her gaze as she lifts her head, meeting Catherine’s gaze head-on without hesitation. Catherine stares right back. Shamir can almost feel Aymr and Thunderbrand clashing between them, Relic against Relic, heat radiating from a battle that has—as far as Shamir knows—never actually occurred.

Catherine’s face cracks with a grin. “I don’t understand. Not completely. But I can respect that stance, at least.”

Edelgard nods. Catherine nods back. Hubert is the one to speak up, then, clearing his throat with only mild bemusement at the strange understanding they seem to have come to: “Is there anything else you’d like to inquire about?”

“Oh, yeah. One last thing.” Catherine pauses, presumably to ramp up the suspense, and then—unexpected even to Shamir—gestures to Edelgard’s axe. “You seem to have ditched your Hero’s Relic. Should I get rid of Thunderbrand?”

“The Heroes’ Relics possessed by the Black Eagle Strike Force have been destroyed, or at least they will be in the near future,” says Edelgard, after pausing for a moment to blink at the unexpected question. “In a world without the importance of Crests, they too shouldn’t matter. But so long as you don’t let Thunderbrand fall into the wrong hands, it should be all right to wield.”

“Hmm. And if I _want_ to get rid of it?”

“Catherine,” starts Cyril before faltering.

Catherine unsheathes her sword, which makes both Edelgard and Hubert tense up, Edelgard’s hand snapping to her axe on instinct. But Catherine only sets Thunderbrand down on the table. It pulses and glows, unnatural in a way that has always unsettled part of Shamir. At least it isn’t the writhing Lance of Ruin.

“I think this sword has caused more trouble than it’s worth, at this point,” says Catherine, grimacing. “Faerghan nobles, they’re pretty fucked up. We have legends about the souls of the dead and all that.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Wielding this Relic—it’s cool and powerful as hell, honestly, but I’m tough enough that I can get by with any old sword. Or gauntlets. And those don’t chip away at my soul with every use.” Running a hand down Thunderbrand’s hilt, Catherine looks up. “I can’t expect to just let go of all of that like that. So maybe I shouldn’t try to destroy it yet. But if I do…”

“We’ll figure out something. Linhardt would _love_ to do research into it, I’m sure.” Edelgard winces, and so does Catherine. “But if you do wind up wanting it destroyed, we’re working on easier means of that as well.”

“Right. Thanks.” There’s still some hesitation in Catherine’s stare, but she lets it go with a quick exhale, nodding in slight gratitude at Edelgard before glancing to the side. “Well, I think that’s it, right, Cyril?”

“Yeah. That’s all I can think of.”

Edelgard nods once more, severe gaze traveling over all four of the others. “All right. You’re all free to go, then.”

A moment of silence passes over the room—then, almost by instinct or telepathic agreement, they all rise: One at a time, Catherine first and Hubert last. Edelgard calls the guards back in. Catherine and Cyril exchange a few quiet words, which Shamir doesn’t bother listening in on.

The doors open, but before they can leave, Hubert calls Catherine’s name. She stops, muttering about déjà vu.

“Might you remove your glove for a moment?” asks Hubert, only to be met with an affronted glare. He sighs and shakes his head. “Not for any nefarious purposes, mind you. Just—your right glove, if you will.”

Understanding dawns on her face. Catherine reaches down to roll up her sleeve and tug off her glove. The last time Shamir had seen her hands bare, it had been under the glare of the moon, fading to black at the tips and smeared with a combination of blood from Shamir and a Demonic Beast. Now, she’s not surprised to see the skin returned almost to its original warm brown, with some mild discoloration stretching from the crook of her elbow to her nailbeds. Catherine’s expression twists when she stretches her arm out, but she doesn’t double over in pain, at least.

Hubert glances her arm over, then tilts his chin back and nods. A fond smile crosses his face, though he turns away when Catherine raises an eyebrow. “That’s all,” he says. “You’re free to go.”

Catherine slides her glove back on and rolls her sleeve down again. She and Cyril turn once more, accompanied by the guards and with Shamir a few paces behind, and—

Edelgard is the one to call out this time. “Shamir,” she adds, “would you mind staying a moment longer?”

Before her, Catherine and Cyril’s steps stutter to a stop, and they turn back to look at her. Shamir gestures them out. They oblige, though Cyril gives her an apprehensive look over his shoulder and Catherine’s strides are somewhat less confident than usual. Once the door has fallen shut again, Shamir turns to face Edelgard and Hubert.

“You want to discuss my contract,” she says, not a question.

“Precisely.” Edelgard folds her arms behind her back. “Simply put, we’d like to offer you a full-time position as a mercenary working alongside the Imperial retinue, working with the elected leaders of former Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance territory to serve all of Fódlan. You would have roles in diplomacy, combat, and espionage alike.”

This is all familiar ground, but Shamir can’t help but narrow in on one area. “Diplomacy?”

Hubert, wearing the exclusive expression he adopts for matters of business, cuts in: “While Her Majesty has been working tirelessly to further diplomatic relations with other nations, we have yet to assign diplomats to Brigid and Dagda. This would not be your _official_ job description, per se, but as someone with ties to that region and knowledge of at least Dagdan language and culture—”

“—I’m a safe bet,” fills in Shamir.

Edelgard and Hubert both nod.

With a huff, Shamir folds her arms. She’s not skilled in diplomatic matters, but she gets the feeling that any dealings she would have with the Dagdan government would be firmly off the record. “And my official job description?”

“An assassin,” says Hubert flatly.

“Not quite,” says Edelgard, wincing, and Shamir hides a smile behind her palm. “More akin to private security. You would work alongside Hubert’s spy network as well. Hubert?”

Without hesitation, Hubert produces a contract from his sleeve and steps forward to hand it to Shamir. She takes it and scans it over. It’s similar enough to the previous contract she’d signed as part of the Black Eagle Strike Force, although it includes peacetime tasks and an increased salary that makes her eyebrows arch toward her hairline.

It’s, she has to admit, a good offer. She’s not indebted to Edelgard nor any government in Fódlan, given her services during the war—nothing like that would hang over her head. She would be able to work alongside those she’d forged connections with. She’d be able to do the work she likes—and, more importantly, is good at.

Shamir takes a couple of minutes to think about it, flipping through pages and asking short questions, but at least to herself, she’ll have to admit that her mind is already made up. She had made her decision a dozen times over, really, and she would once more.

She hands Hubert back the contract. “I appreciate the offer,” she says, honest, feeling herself grow lighter at the admission, “but there’s somewhere else I’m meant to be. Another path to follow, just like your own.”

Edelgard looks disappointed but not surprised; Hubert, even less so.

“Very well, then,” says Edelgard. “Thank you for hearing me out, nevertheless.”

“You’re one of the most decent employers I’ve ever had,” allows Shamir. After a brief pause, she adds, “And one of my most valued allies and friends.”

“The same to you.” Edelgard bows her head. “Your skill is without rival, Shamir, which has been made all the clearer by your completion of this mission. And then some,” she says, eyes cutting toward the door, no doubt curious about Catherine and Cyril’s change in attitude. She clears her throat. “Should you ever be in need of a recommendation elsewhere, I will be more than willing to provide it.”

Despite herself, Shamir laughs. “Thank you. It’s a good contract. You wrote it, I assume?” she asks, nodding toward Hubert.

He smirks and sweeps into a bow. “You’ve caught me,” he says, somewhere between mocking and respectful. “We tried to foist off a modified version on Leonie, but she insisted upon taking up her former mentor’s ragtag band of mercenaries. A shame, really.”

“Leonie is doing fine work, and she never said she wouldn’t do it for us if we paid the right price.” Edelgard shakes her head at Shamir, very _can you believe him_ , while Hubert straightens back up. They stand there another moment, all aware that this could be the last time they talk like this, before Edelgard smooths down her skirt. “That will be all. Thank you again, Shamir. You are free to leave.”

With one last grateful bow, a hand on her chest to mimic Hubert’s posture, Shamir turns to go.

Hubert calls her name, and once more, Shamir looks back. Both he and Edelgard are smiling, but it’s Edelgard who says, with the smile of the bright young girl Shamir had known rather than the prim and stiff emperor, “Good luck.”

Shamir nods, sparing them a smile of her own before she leaves.

*

Catherine blinks as she steps back into the sunlight, stumbling out of the palace with a faint feeling of confusion underlined with unmistakable relief. Adrenaline pulses through her system, like she’s just emerged victorious from a heart-pounding battle. And… well, hasn’t she? Edelgard is about as vicious as any Demonic Beast Catherine has fought, though her sense of mercy is certainly not absent. As evidenced by the fact that Catherine is still standing here.

She’s still somewhat shaken up over that. She’s pretty sure she wasn’t breathing toward the end. Edelgard’s words, careful but not lacking in emotion, ring in her ears. Maybe she’ll have to take Edelgard up on her offer for a later discussion; she thinks she’ll need a chance to lick her wounds before she offers any sort of response to Hubert.

For now, though, Catherine is more than happy to stand here in Enbarr, frayed but alive and well, at least by the loosest definitions of the words. She spreads her arms and basks in the sun.

The guards swing the doors shut behind Catherine and Cyril with a mighty _thud_ that seems to echo all throughout the city. It’s still crowded, but here outside the palace, removed from the main streets, Catherine gets a new sense of stillness.

Her age-old defense mechanism of avoidance re the possibility of her impending demise hadn’t kicked in when they’d first arrived, so she hadn’t gotten a chance to really take it all in. Now, she stares at the city that Edelgard is in the process of reforging. No major effects are visible, save a few statues that have been dismantled and replaced, from what Catherine recalls of her occasional previous visits. Enbarr has always represented the nobility of its nation; now, it seems more ordinary. It’s still as elegant, so maybe it’s a simple difference of perspective, but something about its architecture seems less glamorous and more functional, reflecting the hard work of the people who had built it rather than the status of those who lord it above them.

It’s really too much for someone to take in all at once, and so Catherine doesn’t push herself. She glances back toward the palace, wondering at what Shamir is discussing within. Not like she can’t guess—or at least she’d like to think she can guess, given their (cut-off) discussion the night before and all Catherine knows about Edelgard and Hubert.

Realizing she hasn’t taken a full breath, Catherine clasps a hand to her chest and lets loose a ragged gasp. Cyril gives her an alarmed look, but she raises her other hand in dismissal.

“I’m fine, just—dear Goddess.” Catherine wipes away some of the sweat that’s accumulated on her forehead, flicking it off with another heavy exhale. She lets her breathing get back to a normal rate before speaking again. “That was pretty intense, huh? I figured Edelgard had it in her, but hearing about her and seeing her in person is another thing altogether. Admittedly, she didn’t even say anything too bad, but I’m still shaking a little.”

“That truth serum doesn’t seem to be wearing off,” says Cyril, picking at his collar. It’s not _as_ slicked to his skin as Catherine’s hair is to hers, but some sweat is beading along his cheeks and neck.

“Hey, you heard Edelgard. _Highly experimental_.” She doesn’t bother doing an imitation of Edelgard’s voice, but the intent is there.

Cyril rubs his eyes. “Well, at least we’re out now, right? ‘Cause even after everything Shamir said, I was really worried for a second there that they really were gonna execute us.”

“Oh, no, me too. Those two do not instill the utmost confidence.” With a sigh, Catherine straightens up. “Well, now that we’ve essentially been told to get the hell out of Fódlan—”

“That wasn’t super subtle,” agrees Cyril.

“Right? But anyway, I think we have some decisions to make—” Cyril is already nodding, eyes somewhere between eager and terrified, two emotions Catherine is also teetering on the cusp of “—but we should wait for Shamir before we do anything, I think.” Cyril nods to that as well, though he looks curious, and Catherine wheedles her way out of that conversation by changing the subject. “Hey, look. What happened in there—”

“Which part of it?”

Catherine rubs the back of her neck. She’d almost rather talk about her and Shamir now. “You know, everything that was said about Rhea. I just—I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it since that one night, so—”

She falls silent when Cyril looks away, brows pressing together. It takes him a moment, during which he fidgets with something buried in his pocket, to respond, and when he does, his voice is quiet.

“I’m just—there are kind of these two versions of her in my head now,” he says, words stilted. “The Lady Rhea I knew, and the Rhea—Seiros—whatever I’m finding out she really was. And I’m trying to figure out how they could be the same person, and it’s—I mean, it’s really hard. Lady Rhea was nice to me. She saved me. But—”

“But,” prompts Catherine when he doesn’t go on, falling short of a real question.

Cyril exhales. “But at the same time, I’m starting to wonder… what really made her and people like the Gonerils so different? I mean—I did the same things for her. I did _more_ for her,” he says as if he’s realizing it for the first time, the wideness of his eyes both childlike and mature. “And she let me do all of that, but she never really taught me anything. I don’t know how to read or write. Everything I know is about wyverns and archery, and I didn’t learn any of that from her. I loved her, and I knew so many things about her, but—there’s so much _she_ didn’t know about _me_. She didn’t even know where I slept most of the time. And now that she’s gone, I can’t even ask her about any of it.” He shakes his head, turning away so that a few locks of hair, grown past his chin now, fall into his eyes. “I dunno. It’s—it’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” says Catherine quietly. “Yeah, it really is.” She leans over to rest a hand on his shoulder, and he reaches up to squeeze it without a word. “I don’t know what to say to make it any better, if there even is anything that could be said, but—I’m here. You know that, yeah?”

“I know. And—I’m here for you, too,” says Cyril, his voice cracking, and together they stand there, people-watching as well as they can from their position, in a comfortable silence that would delight Shamir to no end.

It takes maybe twenty minutes for Shamir herself to join them. Catherine turns at the sound of her footsteps, though she waits until the guards have fallen back again to smile. Cyril offers Shamir a simple nod.

“Hi,” says Catherine. Something in that single word, plain and soft, makes Shamir smile back as she joins them. “Everything go okay?”

“They offered me another job,” says Shamir, tone as level as ever. “A more permanent one this time.”

There’s a beat of silence. Catherine and Cyril glance between themselves, then at Shamir, who stares back with her chin back and her mouth still twitching.

Cyril, blinking, is the one who brings himself to ask: “Did you take it?” His eyes are a little raw around the edges, more so from his haphazard attempts to wipe away any burgeoning tears without Catherine seeing than anything else, but his expression and posture are a dozen times lighter. The steadiness of his voice mimics Shamir’s indifference, though he doesn’t pull it off as well.

Anxiety flutters in Catherine’s stomach, but it disperses when Shamir says, “No. There are other places for me to be.”

Her gaze lingers on Catherine, for whom it takes a moment to set in—and when it does, a grin spreads across her face the same way people are said to fall in love: Slowly, and then all at once. “Yeah?” she asks, hands falling to her hips.

“Yeah.” Shamir’s smile is thin but there, accompanied by a slight flush high in her cheeks.

Tempted as she is to haul Shamir up into an embrace right then and there and fluster the both of them and Cyril alike, there’s a more pressing concern on Catherine’s mind. She turns to Cyril, who’s glancing between them with bemusement, and asks, “And you?”

Cyril startles. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. What are you planning on doing after this?”

Cyril continues to scrunch up his brow in confusion, hand on his chin, and Catherine can almost see the gears working over his head. “I—wasn’t really thinking about it before ‘cause of everything with Edelgard and Hubert,” he confesses, “so I’m not sure. We probably can’t stay in Fódlan, so—I dunno, I’ve thought about traveling a little. There’s a whole world past this.”

His eyes are glittering, enough so that Catherine can tell his mind is already about made up. She laughs, unable to help it, and says, “What a coincidence. See, Shamir and I already decided—”

“I never told you my answer,” cuts in Shamir.

“What, you’re going to make me ask again now?” Catherine rolls her eyes even as Cyril’s gaze clouds with confusion again and Shamir arches an eyebrow in a way that tells Catherine that yes, she is going to make her ask again now. With a forced sigh, Catherine leans back. “Fine. Shamir Nevrand, are you willing to travel the world with me?”

Shamir pauses for a moment, as if genuinely considering, and then turns her head away. “Since you phrased it so eloquently, sure.”

Catherine sniffs. “Well, we can’t all say _shall I suggest we wed_ so smoothly,” she says, affecting her voice with a deeper, flatter tone that sounds only a little like Shamir.

“Did you want me to ask again?”

“ _Anyway.”_ Catherine claps her hands together, ignoring the heat in her face and how Shamir is amused enough by it to not even grimace at the sound. Cyril, too, stifles laughter despite his continuing confusion. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. “That’s what’s happening, so what do you say, Cyril? I don’t actually know your last name, but do you want to come along with us? Again?”

“His last name is Nasr,” contributes Shamir.

“Really?” At Cyril’s still-bewildered nod, which answers as many questions as it introduces, Catherine spreads her arms. “Okay, Cyril Nasr,” she says, “do you want to travel the world with me and Shamir?”

Cyril’s eyes are wide, and Catherine doesn’t let herself squint to see if tears are tears shimmering at the corners of them again. “You mean it?”

Catherine grins and knocks her knuckles against his shoulder, a less delicate mirror of her earlier gesture. “Of course. I told you I’d be here for you, didn’t I? I’m not going to leave you after all that. The two of us might not have any place in Fódlan anymore—” if they ever had to begin with, between Catherine’s disownment in all but name and Cyril’s origins “—but we can at least have a place together.”

“A place together, huh?” Cyril’s voice is shaky, but he lifts his head to meet Catherine’s gaze head-on. Somewhere, she wonders when he got so tall. “I think I like the sound of that.”

“There might be some things I have to learn from you now,” adds Shamir.

“I think we all have things to learn from each other,” Catherine agrees. “And together is the only way we can do that. I can’t say it won’t be tough, but hey, I’ve always been stubborn—and I know you two are too.” She shrugs and, without bothering to wipe her eyes, reaches for Shamir to tug her toward them. “C’mon. One hug for the road?”

With a sigh that contradicts her smile, Shamir relaxes into Catherine’s grip. Catherine beams as she sweeps both her and Cyril up.

Time stands still around them, but they’ve got plenty of it to spare from this moment on. In a way, Catherine supposes, she _had_ died today after all—her past self, already carried along by a thin thread, had molted to give birth to the person she is in this moment, the person she is becoming and always will be becoming. And Cyril and Shamir are no different, smiles brighter than she’s seen in years.

The world has been hard to the three of them and people like them, and even with the guidance of its new leaders, no doubt it will continue to be. But despite it all, Catherine has faith. It’s no longer in a single person nor a goddess, just in _people_ , most of all the two on either side of her—and even above that, herself. And as long as she’s got that—

They’ll be all right, she thinks. The three of them don’t have much, but they have each other to lean on and grow to trust again, and that’s more than enough.

She closes her eyes and opens them again just like that, tightening her arms around Cyril and Shamir, the weird approximation of a makeshift family the three of them compose holding tight to each other as the planet continues to spin. Enbarr is alive before them, noon sun making the city glow, and beyond that is a whole world bursting with life and adventure. Catherine’s feet are on the ground, but her gaze is forward and her shoulders are high.

The horizon awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap, folks!
> 
> so, i'm going to cut straight to the point: i've worked on this fic during some tough times. even putting aside worldwide current events, i've obviously been having health troubles (being a disabled person with a garbage immune system rn is uh. scary!), and my dog and my grandmother passed away less than two months apart. (sidenote about the latter, because i need to immediately detract with humor: did you know a single person could own like 30+ bibles and counting? my grandmother did! we're still finding them over a month later!) i'm uncomfortable going into more detail than that, but i hit quite a few rough patches in the process of writing and editing this fic -- but i did finish it, and while it isn't perfect, i'm extremely proud of what it became!
> 
> and i just wanted to extend one last thanks to all of you, as your support has meant a lot to me. i ultimately wrote this fic for myself, but i'm so glad i could share it. i can never express my gratitude enough, but i'll try: thank you all so, so very much for reading <3
> 
> wrt future plans: i've been kicking around concepts for one-offs in this universe (and the planned epilogue that i ended up dropping but really actually want to put aside time to write), but if that does ever happen, it'll probably be _a while_ given the rest of my current workload and schedule. but i am working on more fe3h fics, including a cathmir fake dating au i'm hoping to work on before school starts up again, as well as some stuff for other media. stay tuned, i guess!
> 
> anyway, that's all, really. thanks for reading this uncharacteristically long and personal author's note, too! stay safe, stay healthy, and stay angry. see you around!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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